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AT THE 

LIBRARY TABLE 



BY 



ADRIAN HOFFMAN JOLINE 

Author of 
" Meditations of an Autograph Collector" 
"The Diversions of a Book Lover" 
&c. 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 

1910 



Copyright, 1909, by A. H. Joline 



AH Rights Reserved 






The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



ICU253361 



PREFATORY NOTE 

THREE of the papers in this volume have 
been privately printed. I have added, how- 
ever, some new matter to the sketches of 
Ainsworth and James; and it has been sug- 
gested to me that those sketches should be published, 
although I have some misgivings about them. The 
other paper I am reprinting merely to please myself. 
Two men have confided to me that they have read it, 
and possibly two more may be persuaded to do the 
same thing. 

November, 1909. 



CONTENTS 

Page. 

I. At the Library Table 5 

II. The Deliberations of a Dofob 31 

III. In a Library Corner 45 

IV. Of the Old Fashion 67 

V. William Harrison Ainsworth 83 

VI. George P. R. James 125 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

WHETHER there are many who take much 
interest in books about books is a mat- 
ter of doubt. Multitudes of people like 
to think that they are fond of books 
merely as books, and derive great com- 
fort from the innocent delusion that they delight in 
the possession of them. A neat and imposing library is 
an attractive ornament of the country house as well as 
of the city mansion, and if the volumes are bound in a 
becoming fashion, by Zaehnsdorf, Riviere, Lortic, or 
Cobden-Sanderson, they look well on the shelves and 
impart to the establishment an air of dignity and refine- 
ment. But it is a portentous question whether the ma- 
jority of book-owners ever find occasion or opportu- 
nity to inquire within or to inform themselves about the 
contents of the tomes which line the walls of the com- 
fortable library. The toilers who are absorbed in the 
drudgery of daily work have little leisure to expend on 
the inside of their books, and the merry idlers who 
devote their energies to sports, athletic or otherwise, 
amusements, and the varied diversions which occupy 
the minds of the members of our modern "society", 
have still less. My dear friend, the average man, de- 
serving as he is of admiration and respect, cannot have 
much interest in books which are purely bookish, and 
my dearer friend, the average woman, who now and 
again plunges calmly but despairingly into the depths 
of "literature", — combining with others of her kind 
in so-called reading clubs, so as to share her afflictions 

5 



6 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

with her fellows — secretly longs for the sweets 
of fiction while she pretends to be fond of such stupid 
performances as essays and dissertations. In the re- 
cesses of her personality she regards works of that 
description as bores to be avoided; and very likely 
she is not far wrong. 

Mind, I am not talking of inhabitants of Boston, 
Massachusetts. It may be that my notions are derived 
wholly from my New York environment. A New 
Yorker appears to think that it is an evidence of weak- 
ness to allow any one to find out that books are dear 
to him, and seems to be as loath to confess the pas- 
sion as he would be to proclaim at the club or upon 
the house-tops his fond attachment to the lady of his 
choice. In the goodly number of years during which 
I have trodden the pavements and availed of the facil- 
ities of transit afforded by the street-railways of the 
city whereof we are justly proud, I do not remember 
hearing the subject of books or of things pertaining 
to books discussed or even referred to by any of my 
neighbors. But recently in Boston, while walking on 
Boylston Street, I passed two lads who were still in their 
later teens, and distinctly heard one of them say, "the 
Latin derivation of that word is" — I lost the rest of it. 
In New York he would have been uttering something 
in the vulgar argot used by the youth of our times, — 
preserved and fostered by the newspaper — about "de 
cops" or "de Giants", or the superiority of some novel 
brand of cigarettes. They would have blushed for 
shame to be discovered in the possession of any knowl- 
edge of such discreditable matters as "Latin" or "de- 
rivations" of any description. The gospel of "doing 
things" has been preached to them so strenuously that 
they have long since forgotten, if they ever knew, that 
there is any virtue in "knowing things". 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 7 

Sitting at the library table and letting my eyes wander 
with affection to the adjacent shelves, I try to fancy who 
buys the multitudinous books of memoirs and reminis- 
cences, of literary, dramatic and political gossip, which 
are poured forth so profusely from the English presses. 
Now and then I encounter their titles in seductive cata- 
logues and purchase them at large reductions from the 
original prices — "published at £3 10s and marked down 
to 7s 6d." We have nothing quite like them in these 
United States, or very little, because they do not "pay", 
as the phrase runs. I wonder whether these English 
books "pay" in England, but I am inclined to think 
that they must, for publishers are not usually actuated 
by motives of pure philanthropy; they do not print 
for pleasure only or for personal gratification in bring- 
ing out the screeds of ambitious authors. I like those 
English books ; their type is large and legible ; the paper 
has a substantial mellowness; and the simple bindings 
are well-fitted to be torn off and replaced by real bind- 
ings. They have the merit of what may be called 
"skippability", for the writers are sadly given to deplor- 
able diffuseness and degenerate frequently into tedious- 
ness for which I love them, as a fellow-sinner. They 
convey impressions of abundant leisure and unlimited 
vocabulary. Does an author ever become conscious that 
he is growing tedious ? If he does, how he must revel in 
the thought that, despite his tediousness, some daring 
explorer will toil through his pages, and that in some 
library at least, be it that of the British Museum or of 
our own Congress, his book will stand triumphantly 
upon the shelves in the company of Lord Avebury's 
One Hundred. 

I do not believe that an ordinary American, at least 
in these days, would dream of publishing such a book 



8 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

as "Gossip From Paris", the correspondence (1864- 
1869) of Anthony B. North Peat, which the Kegan 
Paul house brought out a few years ago. Some one 
may say that an American could not, and I will not 
deny the charge if it is made. North Peat, whose name 
sounds like that of a station on the Grand Trunk Rail- 
way, was not by any means a famous person, but he was 
a clever and an observant journalist and there is much 
of interest in the volume mingled with much that is of 
no present interest whatever. One passage has given 
me comfort, because it contains something rarely 
encountered — a good word for the collector of auto- 
graphs. Usually when an author is feeling a little 
rancor about life generally, he will go far out of his 
way to kick an autograph collector. I purr slightly 
when I quote what North Peat wrote in September, 
1866. 

"I know one man in Paris who has an extensive 
library composed exclusively of works in one volume 
and of the same folio; but, perhaps, among the mani- 
fold phases of the collecting mania none is more excus- 
able than that of gathering autographs. * * * To 
read over the names and the tariff at which signatures 
or letters are quoted gives a most curious insight into 
the place held in public opinion by the generals, diplo- 
matists, poets, literary men, composers, and even crim- 
inals whose handwritings are eagerly sought for by 
amateurs. Last month the prices ran thus: George 
Sand, 6f. ; Seward, iof. ; Jefferson Davis, i^{. ; Duke 
of Morny, 4f. 50c; Michelet, if. 75c; McClellan, 
2of. ; Verdi, 3f. 50c; Prevost Paradol, 2f. 50c; 
Champfleury, 2f. Gerard de Nerval is quoted 2of., 
thanks to a note attached to the letter, 'correspondance 
amoreuse tres passionee.' A copybook of the King of 
Rome is quoted 2of. Renan, the sceptic author of 
La Vie de Jesus, keeps up in the market, and goes for 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 9 

1 of. A letter of Henri Latouche is to be sold for 2f. 
50c; it contains the following curious passage: 'The 
only souvenirs of my literary life to which I look back 
with pride are, having edited Andre Chenier and having 
deterred George Sand from devoting her talents to 
water-colour drawing.' A letter of Louis XVI is 
quoted at 2f. 50c, by which the King grants a sum of 
240of. (£100) to 'La Dame Rousseau, cradle-rocker 
to the children of France'." 

I have quoted thus at length not only because of my 
pride in the compliment to autograph collectors but 
because the prices mentioned must bring a pang to the 
hearts of those who buy now-a-days and pay more than 
ten times as much for George Sands, Verdis, and Louis 
XVIs. I can imagine the sensations of a dealer of 
to-day if some innocent should offer fifty cents for that 
Louis XVI document— I am confident that it was not 
a letter. Mr. North Peat has overlooked the fact, as 
is common with those who do not belong to the inner 
brotherhood, that contents are of much consequence in 
establishing the market value of autograph letters, but 
his figures are not without significance. Some of us 
are glad to observe that even in 1866 McClellan's auto- 
graph "fetched" twice as much as Seward's and six 
times as much as Verdi's. 

Very unlike the reasonable remarks of North Peat is 
the autographic deliverance of that once celebrated 
"educator", Mr. Horace Mann. This gem of wisdom, 
given to me by a Boston friend in a malicious spirit of 
kindly generosity, is lying on the library table. It reads 
thus :— 

"I would rather perform one useful act for my fel- 
low men than to be the possessor of all the autographs 
in the world. Horace Mann. 

"West Newton, April 23, '50." 



io AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

It is an excellent specimen of the smug self satisfac- 
tion, the Chadbandian cant, the affectation of altruism 
which marked the middle of the nineteenth century, 
particularly in the regions lying about West Newton. 
Cheap enough withal it seems to be, for as he could 
never by any chance become "the possessor of all the 
autographs in the world", his expression of preference 
signifies nothing whatever. The formula is simple 
enough. Select something which sounds noble and un- 
selfish and then say that you would rather do that 
thing than to have — all the diamonds, all the pictures, 
all the Caxtons, all the gold mines, all the puppy-dogs 
and all the tabby-cats in the universe. It is in contem- 
poraneous vernacular, a safe "bluff". If he had said 
that he would rather perform one useful act for his fel- 
low men than to be the owner of a hundred shares of 
Standard Oil, it would have had some meaning, for one 
could then measure the precise extent of his devotion 
to the welfare of mankind. One may naturally in- 
quire, why not have all the autographs in the world 
and do not one but many useful acts for one's fel- 
low men ? There is no inherent incompatibility between 
the two ideas. 

It may be suggested that the subject of books about 
books and the gathering of autographs are not cog- 
nate; that they have no relation to each other; that 
they are illegally joined together in defiance of the laws 
laid down in Day's Praxis. I knew a dignified New 
England author, lawyer and soldier who was accus- 
tomed, when assailed by a proposition to which he did 
not assent, but which he was too polite to dispute, to 
close discussion by the sententious remark, "That in- 
deed". I never fully understood precisely what it 
meant, but it seemed to be conclusive for there was no 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 1 1 

more to be said. It was like some of the cryptic utter- 
ances of that model of concise expression, Mr. F's 
aunt. But I maintain that the man who truly covets 
autographs, covets books likewise for the sake of the 
books themselves, irrespective of style or contents. It 
may be one of Mr. Crother's One Hundred Worst 
Books, but all the more precious for that very reason. 
My point is easily demonstrated by a logical device not 
uncommonly adopted by those who manufacture our 
opinions for us in the public press. The man who — to 
continue the locution of Mr. Joseph Surface — does not 
feel a fondness for books of the bookish sort, derives 
no gratification from the ownership of autographs. I 
am not referring to the pseudo-collector with his album 
or to the encourager of profanity who besets the liv- 
ing great with requests for his signature. I allude, sir, 
as General Cyrus Choke said in regard to the British 
lion, to him who finds a charm in written words penned 
by the hand of a warrior, a statesman, or a scholar. It 
is a charm that may not be defined, for when you ven- 
ture upon a definition it softly and suddenly vanishes 
away like the Baker who encountered the Snark that 
was a Boojum in the Carrollian fable. 

I am not ashamed to acknowledge that there is some- 
thing about the exterior of books which appeals to our 
warmest affections. We love to sit among them and 
enjoy the sight of them as many rejoice in the prospect 
of lake, valley and mountain. Dear old R. Wilfer in 
Our Mutual Friend had one darling wish, to possess 
at one time a complete new attire from boots to 
hat, but he never attained that glorious pinnacle. The 
late Sultan of Turkey, thirty years or more ago, had 
an enthusiasm for rifles, bought a lot of them at an 



12 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

enormous cost, and constructed for the storage of these 
treasures a kind of mausoleum of rifles, a grand edi- 
fice in which the muskets were arranged in serried ranks 
radiating from a centre where, upon a throne, the po- 
tentate who called himself Abdul Hamid Khan Sani, 
Sultan and Sovereign of the Ottoman Empire, was 
accustomed to sit in solemn and solitary state while he 
gloated over his acquisitions. In like spirit I would 
exult if I could have a library room where I could see 
all the books at once, reviewing the beloved brigades 
and cheerfully foregoing the reading of them. To 
marshal the regiments of books, the well-uniformed bat- 
talions, the heavy artillery of the folios, the light skirm- 
ishers of the duodecimos, would bring a joy akin to 
that which the pompous and patriotic soldier, the vain- 
est of men, Brevet Lieutenant General Winfield Scott, 
used to feel when, sitting on his charger, he reviewed 
the valiant little army which conquered Mexico over 
sixty years ago. This recalls to me that in the inno- 
cent hours of childhood I supposed that the head which 
Salome demanded was brought to King Herod on just 
such a charger as the General bestrode according to the 
veracious picture which hung over the sofa in the 
"back parlor", when I also firmly believed that the 
baskets in which the fragments were gathered after the 
miracle were the large, ordinary baskets used in our 
laundry. 

Vain as he was, the old General was a good, sturdy 
warrior, and no one can read his egostistical memoirs 
without becoming aware of the fact, in spite of his 
enormous self-conceit. When King Edward VII vis- 
ited us as Prince of Wales in i860, I saw the royal 
youth on the parade-ground at West Point. I remem- 
ber him well, for as A. Ward observed, "I seldom for- 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 13 

git a person". But the General was the man I longed 
to gaze upon, and I regret that a facetious uncle easily 
persuaded me that the gorgeous drum-major who led 
the band was the Great Scott himself. The materiality 
of this reminiscence lies in the fact that a volume of 
Scott's Memoirs is usually to be found on the library 
table, a model of what an autobiography ought not to 
be. Soldiers in later days learned to write the story of 
their battles with more good taste and modesty. Per- 
haps General Benjamin F. Butler was an exception, but 
he was not a soldier, and his battles were very few; 
and those of us who loved and honored McClellan 
regret the publishing of his "Own Story", a deed he 
would never have countenanced. A man should never 
be judged by what he writes to his wife. 

It would not be amiss if some fair-minded and com- 
petent person would give us a candid and impartial his- 
tory of some of the men who have been dealt with un- 
justly by the merciless masses in this country. McClel- 
lan is one of these victims, although students of mili- 
tary affairs have begun to comprehend the truth about 
him; but the great majority still believe that he was a 
timid, dilatory and inefficient commander who quar- 
relled with his President without a cause. General Ar- 
thur St. Clair, of revolutionary times, was even a great- 
er sufferer, and he has been soi long dead that his rec- 
ord may be judged calmly. Aaron Burr has had several 
defenders, and it is now well established that whatever 
sins he may have committed, treason was not one of 
them. Martin Van Buren, sorely maligned by par- 
tisan historians, has been ably vindicated by Edward 
Morse Shepard. James K. Polk, Chief Justice Taney, 
and Andrew Johnson also deserve to be relieved from 
many of the aspersions which have been plentifully be- 



i 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

stowed upon them. Unfortunately there is a tendency 
on the part of most men who undertake a work of that 
character to become advocates rather than judges, and 
to impair the influence of their arguments by an excess 
of ardor. 

Most of us find that as the number of our years 
increases we are apt to pass more and more of our 
time at the library table, within easy reach of the 
shelves. I have been charged with believing that books 
are "the chief things in life"; I admit that they are 
not and ought not to be that, but I see no reason why 
we should not be allowed to enjoy them as we would 
any other innocent pleasure, in due moderation. A good 
many young people might as well be accused of believ- 
ing that sports were the chief things in human exist- 
ence; and both in England and in this country I appre- 
hend that sports engross the attention of the multitude 
to the exclusion of such minor things as books; but I 
find no fault with them because they choose pleasures 
different from mine. 

Youth is a pleasure in itself, but one may be allowed 
to have misgivings as to whether its joys are not in some 
degree overrated. Certainly our young people seem 
to work very hard to get their fun out of life, and after 
they have had it they do not appear to be much the 
better for it. We often sigh for our lost youth, and if 
we are lucky enough to be able to remember so much of 
our Horace, we whisper to ourselves "Eheu fugaces" 
and the rest of it, while if we were confronted by a 
decree that we must go over it all again, Latin included, 
we would beg for mercy, or, if we happened to be law- 
yers, ask for an adjournment. It is "a wise dispensation 
of Providence" — if one may be permitted to refer to 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 15 

the mandates of Providence in that patronizing way — 
that the old have their pleasures too and that the boys 
and girls are not violating any congressional or legisla- 
tive provisions against trusts by having a monopoly of 
enjoyment. Most of these pleasures are associated with 
books. Talleyrand's sad, whistless old age is of no 
moment when compared with a sad bookless old age. 

The accusation that the lover of books cares more 
for them than he does about life and its varied prob- 
lems, is as unjust as the complaint, preferred — semi- 
jocosely, it must be owned, — by that pertinacious biblio- 
phile, Irving Browne, that "the book-worm does not 
care for nature". He quotes the animal as saying: 

"I feel no need of nature's flowers, — 
Of flowers of rhetoric I have store; 

I do not miss the balmy showers — 
When books are dry I o'er them pore. 

No need that I should take the trouble 

To go abroad to walk or ride, 
For I can sit at home and double 

Quite up with pain from Akenside." 

The punster is such a derelict, such a scoffed-at sinner, 
that he may not be taken very seriously. Others than 
Browne however, have gravely reproached the devotee 
of the library for his alleged lack of affection for the 
outer world and its beauties. But the man who knows 
his Gilbert White of Selborne, and his John Burroughs 
of the Hudson, cannot be wholly outside the ranks of 
nature-lovers. We may be uttering a truism when we 
say that as we grow older we come closer to mother 
earth, and as we strike off more and more years from 
our calendar all the sweet things of earth are nearer 
to us and the trees, the flowers, the fields, and the wide 



1 6 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

expanse of hill, river and valley take on a new meaning. 
A few days ago I "took a drive", if one may avail of 
that wretched colloquial form of words, to the hamlet 
of Bedminster, name suggestive of Axminster with its 
carpets and Westminster with its monuments, as far as 
the site of the old church which was ruthlessly and need- 
lessly destroyed by iconoclasts within a year or two. 
It was a delightful autumn drive, the joy of it tempered 
by the abominable automobile which infests our New 
Jersey roads with its hoots and stinks and cloudy mantle 
of dust: and the bookish associations surely did not 
detract from the pleasure. There is a good picture of 
the church in Melick's "Story of an Old Farm", a book 
containing a mine of information about a neighborhood 
filled with associations of the Revolution. When you 
pass by the graveyard which still remains, you cannot 
help thinking of the young English officer, wounded and 
captured at Princeton, who died on the journey to Mor- 
ristown and was buried in that field where his monu- 
ment remains at this day. Melick's book is disorderly 
and needs condensing and arranging, but let no one tell 
me that the natural beauty of the country is lessened for 
me because I study it. It is one of those most often to 
be found on the library table in company with Ludwig 
Schumacher's pretty story of the "Somerset Hills". 

Many of us may recall from our own experience 
examples of the peace and contentment, the grace and 
the dignity of book-lovers who have understood how 
to combine their pleasure with the active affairs of busi- 
ness. I remember affectionately one who had passed 
beyond the years of what Elisha Williams called "God 
Almighty's statute of limitations", and who went to his 
rest only a few months ago. Elbridge Goss, of Mel- 
rose, was a type of a New England gentleman, a man 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 17 

of business as well as a lover of literature and of his- 
torical pursuits, fond of his books and autographs, all 
in a mild, modest and unobtrusive way; a gentle, admir- 
able man, deserving of esteem and honor. There was 
no pretense about him; he had a delightful simplicity, 
a true catholicity of sentiment; there was no envy, 
hatred or malice in his composition. His "Life of Paul 
Revere" has long been known favorably, and his other 
works, chiefly historical, were no less meritorious. His 
was a full, useful and well-rounded life, and although 
his name may not be recorded among the famous, it 
will not be forgotten. 

Some weeks before his death, he wrote to me thus: 
"As to your copy of Coleridge, has it the expunged 
verse from 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' ? The 
genial Longfellow once picked up his copy from his 
centre-table and read it to me as follows: 

'A gust of wind sterte up behind 

And whistled thro' his bones, 
Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth 

Half whistles and half groans.' 

When Coleridge saw it in print, he took his pencil, 
crossed it off, and wrote in the margin, 'To be struck 
out. S. T. C It did not appear in subsequent edi- 
tions." Coleridge did well to erase it for it is danger- 
ously near to the ludicrous. 

Whether the poet's later emendations of his pub- 
lished verses are always improvements is problematical. 
We have been surfeited of late with examples of Ten- 
nyson's amendments. He seems never to have been 
wholly satisfied with his work. In Buxton Forman's 
"Keat's Poetry and Prose", one may perceive that a 



1 8 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

poet's changes while sometimes making the lines 
smoother, almost invariably weaken the effect. It is 
so with Byron. The first thought and image, coming 
fresh from the brain, are usually more vigorous and 
poetic than the sober second-thoughts, and alterations 
appear to enfeeble the expression. It is Doctor John- 
son's "wit enough to keep it sweet" and the "putrefac- 
tion" amendment all over again. That, my friend who 
loves to ask "Why first editions?" is one of the reasons 
why. 

The reference to Buxton Forman leads me to record 
an amusing bit of characteristic English newspaper wis- 
dom. Some years ago in a book about autographs I ven- 
tured to make some remarks concerning Keats and For- 
man which drew down upon me the sneers of a London 
journal, the purport of which was that my observations 
were vulgar and peculiarly American. After I had 
recovered from the exaltation of spirit arising from 
being noticed at all by such an eminent authority, I per- 
mitted myself to indulge in justifiable mirth because it 
happened that I had stolen those very remarks from an 
old number of the London Athenaeum in which my 
Keats letter had been copied and described : but accord- 
ing to the well known custom of plagiarists, I had ac- 
cidentally omitted the quotation marks. I inferred that 
an English assertion becomes vulgar only when it is 
repeated by a despicable Yankee. Never again will I 
be guilty of petit larceny. 

This matter of quotations is often a troublesome one. 
I am sorry now that I left out those neat little commas. 
The orator has an unfair advantage over the writer, 
because he is not obliged to use them, and in common 
justice he should be required to give some sign that the 
eloquent sentences he borrows are not his own: he 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 19 

might be compelled to hold up two fingers. A good, 
well rounded quotation is a great help when ideas grow 
so timid that they refuse to come at your call. I sup- 
pose that a lawyer who is asked to> speak before as- 
semblages, on some legal topic, almost always consults 
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, where he finds little to 
aid him except that respectable old stand-by, "The seat 
of the law is the bosom of God; her voice, the harmony 
of the world". It sounds well and it makes a sonor- 
ous finale, besides giving the impression that the quoter 
is accustomed to occupy himself with the works of fine 
old authors : although it always seemed to me that when 
applied to what we call "the law" in these times, it is 
rather highly colored. A friend who was an admirer 
of the sentiment once carefully prepared an "address" 
to be delivered before the Maryland Bar Association, 
and had it printed in advance, lugging in the famous 
lines at the close of his peroration. To his horror, the 
learned President of the Association, who spoke imme- 
diately before him, and who evidently had a Bartlett of 
his own, closed an admirable speech with the same old 
"seat" and "bosom" story. There was nothing to be done 
but to pour it forth again upon the heads of those help- 
less Marylanders, on whom it must have had a "punch 
brothers" effect; but that man will never trot out the 
' 'harmony" yarn again unless he is sure that he is to 
have the first chance at it. 

Mr. James Ford Rhodes in an entertaining paper 
about Edward Gibbon, expresses his belief that the his- 
torian of Rome's decline and fall thought with Thucy- 
dides "My history is an everlasting possession, not a 
prize composition which is heard and forgotten". It 
is not a particularly novel observation, but a faded 



20 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

pamphlet lying before me is a reminder of the fact that 
"prize compositions", "prize poems", and "poems on 
occasions" are always much the same as they were in 
the time of Thucydides, feeble things, and the wonder 
is why men go on encouraging them and why sane peo- 
ple continue to produce them, unless there is a fond 
hope that some of them may turn out to be as good as 
"The Builders" of Henry Van Dyke or the great Com- 
memoration Ode of James Russell Lowell. Even the 
devoted worshipers of the Autocrat must admit that as 
his college class drew nearer to the front rank of the 
Alumni processions, his reunion-verses grew quite tire- 
some; but no one could go on for some seventy years 
writing anniversary stanzas on the same theme without 
degenerating into the commonplace. The pamphlet is 
a little one of thirteen pages, entitled "Pompeii, A Poem 
which obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cam- 
bridge Commencement, July, 1819; by Thomas Bab- 
ington Macaulay, of Trinity College." It was of this 
juvenile poem that the boyish author wrote to his father 
on February 5, 18 19 : "I have not, of course, had time 
to examine with attention all your criticism on 'Pom- 
peii'. I certainly am much obliged to you for with- 
drawing so much time from more important business 
to correct my expressions. Most of the remarks which 
I have examined are perfectly just ; but as to the more 
momentous charge, the want of a moral, I think it 
might be a sufficient defence that, if a subject is given 
which admits of none, the man who writes without a 
moral is scarcely censurable."* Poets, whether young 
or old, seldom take kindly to criticism of their lines, 
but one cannot help feeling some sympathy with the 



'Trevelyan's Life of Macaulay, I, 93. 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 21 

youthful Thomas in his gentle rebellion against the 
unpoetic demand of his somewhat priggish parent for 
a "moral", although the subject of "Pompeii" ought 
to be far more fruitful of "morals" than that which 
ten years later was inflicted upon Tennyson, whose 
"Timbuctoo" carried off the prize in 1829. The Lau- 
reate's successful "piece" is less impressive than Thack- 
eray's biting burlesque — not of Tennyson but of every- 
thing produced on that absurd theme — beginning some- 
thing like this: 

"In Africa — a quarter of the world — 
Men's skins are black; their hair is crisped and curled, 
And somewhere there, unknown to public view, 
A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo." 

Tennyson competed because his father wished him to, 
and "in place of preparing a new poem he furbished 
up an old one written in blank verse instead of the 
orthodox heroic couplet and sent it in."* Milnes 
wrote at the time, "Tennyson's poem has made quite a 
sensation; it is certainly equal to most parts of Mil- 
ton!" The future Lord Houghton was a cheerful, 
genial person, if he was guilty of the most abominable 
handwriting I ever encountered, for the celebrated 
scrawls of James Payn, Charles Darwin and Horace 
Greeley are copperplate script in comparison; and 
Milnes was only twenty then. I knew quite a number 
of Tennysons and Miltons, of the mute, inglorious sort, 
when I was enjoying the enthusiasms of that period of 
life, under the shadow of the Princeton elms; but some- 
how their chariots have all been transformed into mo- 
tor-cars, although they have avoided the fate of Phae- 
thon, that mythological prototype of a chauffeur. 



*Tennyson: E. L. Gary, 19. 



22 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

"Pompeii", naturally enough, is a fair example of 
the stilted verse which a bright lad might well have 
written in 1819. He tells us, among other interesting 
details, how 

"In vain Vesuvius groans with wrath supprest, 
And mutter'd thunder in his burning breast, 
Long since the Eagle from that flaming peak 
Hath soar'd with screams a safer nest to seek. 
Aw'd by th' infernal beacon's fitful glare 
The howling fox hath left his wonted lair; 
Nor dares the browzing goat in vent'rous leap 
To spring, as erst, from dizzy steep to steep;" 

the moral, which father Zachary failed to detect, being 
that these intelligent brutes had much more foresight 
than mere Man, and had wisely decided that a volcano 
in eruption was "no place for them". 

Poor as prize poems may be as poetry, some famous 
men have not disdained to enter into the competitions. 
Lord Selborne's effort gained for him the Newdigate 
prize in 1832, and was deemed worthy of publication in 
Blackwood. The list of prize winners in the two great 
Universities might well be worth studying, even if the 
poetry came from the machine and not from inspiration. 
Byron's Address on the opening of the new Drury Lane 
has not survived, but the "Rejected Addresses", spon- 
taneous and hors concours, will never be wholly for- 
gotten. Indeed a grave personage is recorded as say- 
ing of them that he did not understand why they should 
have been rejected, as some of them were very good. 

A book-lover may think that he has an affection for 
all books, but he surely must draw the line at law-books, 
books of theology and medical treatises. So many 
people who have a notion that a book is valuable to a 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 23 

collector merely because it is old, will insist on bringing 
to me, in the kindness of their hearts, ancient theological 
tomes, for example, which are in fact less desirable than 
old Directories and not for a moment to be compared 
with old Almanacs. I have a friend who is enamored 
of school-books and books on mathematics; a mania 
that has method in it and I can understand the merit of 
it better than I can the pursuit of first editions df 
Trollope. He has a remarkable collection and has 
printed a catalogue in two volumes, not only complete 
in all details but a handsome specimen of book-making. 
He showed me a copy once, and in a moment of hal- 
lucination I thought that he was going to give it to me, 
but he carried it away. I am not sure that I would be 
interested in the collection, and he cares as little for my 
autographs as I do for his arithmetics. I was silly 
enough to speak of my hobby while he was fussing with 
his catalogue and I saw his eyes assume that far-away 
look which meant that he heard me and that was all. 
When any one with feigned interest says, "I would like 
so much to see your autographs", I smile inwardly, if 
such a feat is possible, and I know that it is only one of 
those polite fictions which go so far towards making 
life pleasant. Very few people, especially those with a 
pet hobby of their own, care a straw about other peo- 
ple's collections, except perhaps in the matter of paint- 
ings, which, to use an abominable but familiar phrase, 
is "altogether a different proposition". The other man's 
collection seldom assumes importance until the auction- 
eer falls heir to it. For collectors seldom have much 
sympathy with collectors who occupy different fields 
from theirs : indeed I have found more true sympathy 
between collectors and non-collectors. Steele in one of 
the numbers of the Tatler deals with the mania of col- 



24 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

lecting and makes much poor fun of one Nicholas Gim- 
crack, an entomologist, who spent a fortune in accumu- 
lating insects; but entomologists have their uses and 
perhaps Gimcrack, if such a person ever lived, might 
have retorted that his spiders were as well worth having 
as Sir Richard's unparalleled collection of unpaid bills. 
There are useful features of postage-stamp collecting; 
there are attractions about the hoards of numismatists; 
one can see why even game-chickens may be profitably 
"collected" ; but I fancy that the hobby of a lady of my 
acquaintance — the collecting of pianos — might be 
attended with inconveniences. I fear that the hapless 
being who confesses that he is an autograph-collector 
receives the most general condemnation. I once had a 
notion of bringing together what might be called the 
by-products of autograph-collecting, — a collection of all 
the ill-natured and abusive things ever written or 
printed about autograph-collectors from the beginning 
of the world to the present day, but it would probably 
fill a book as big as my Boydell Shakespeare, which is 
so unwieldy that I have had serious thoughts of hiring 
the tower of the Metropolitan Life Building to hold it. 
Yet how kind some of our busiest and greatest men 
have been to the wretches who "write for autographs"; 
the record of their long-suffering patience would fill 
another large volume. 

There are other manifestations of the autograph 
fever almost as troublesome as the familiar prayer for 
the signature of the person addressed; there is, for 
example, the begging of autographs of other people 
which the victim is supposed to possess. Hawthorne, 
when applied to in this manner, became quite fierce and 
intimated with some vigor that the letters of his friends 
were valuable to him and not to be parted with. The 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 25 

venerable Bishop White was more gentle, when beset 
by that pioneer of American collectors, Doctor William 
B. Sprague. There is a pleasant, old fashioned dignity 
about the Bishop's letter which tempts me to reproduce 
it from the original now lying on the library table. It 
is a model, and if I ever wrote to men soliciting gifts of 
that order — which heaven forbid! — it is just the sort 
of reply that I would like to receive. The Bishop's por- 
traits always make me think of what Aldrich said of 
Wordsworth — that he gave him the impression of 
wanting milk : with his benign placidity it is no wonder 
that he lived until his eighty-ninth year. 

"Philad a , Feb. 12, 1823. 
Rev d & dear Sir: — 

I have received your Letter of ye 23d of January, & 
am disposed to take Measures for compliance with your 
Request. I suppose that I can furnish you with some 
signatures, which may be embraced in your design ; but, 
as it will require considerable examination, to distinguish 
between interesting Letters of former correspondents, 
& others which I can have no particular Reason to 
retain, I must defer ye Work, until I have less of press- 
ing Business on my Hands than at present. 
In ye mean Time, I am, respectfully 

Your very humble servant, 

Wm: White. 
Rev d Wm : B. Sprague, 
West Springfield, 

Massachusetts." 

The Bishop was doubtless one of the last to trans- 
port into the nineteenth century the use of frequent 
capitals, the archaic "ye" and the quaint long "s's" 
which are not "f's" as many believe. 

The subject of autographs is to me what King 
Charles's head was to Mr. Dick. That I am not alone 



26 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

in my infirmity is proved by a letter of James Freeman 
Clarke, written in 1878, in which he acknowledges the 
receipt of a catalogue of a German collection, and says, 
naively, "Notwithstanding my professed indifference to 
any autographs except those of the Apostle Paul, 
Alfred, Charlemagne, Joan of Arc, Martin Luther and 
the like, I confess that my mouth watered at the sight 
of so many of them. It was a pleasure even to read the 
description and title". These words, showing that his 
indifference was a mere pretense, were written by a seri- 
ous and scholarly man, famous in his day as preacher, 
author and educator, and I am sure that even his little 
pretense would soon have been abandoned if I could 
only have been honored for a little while with his com- 
pany at the library table. 

Almost every one finds it hard to understand as he 
attains the period when juniors say to him, "Now, at 
your time of life" — a form of expression I have come 
to loathe — that he is really no longer — to use another 
wretched locution, — "up to date". I am beginning to 
comprehend the feelings of some of the excellent be- 
wigged old gentlemen of the seventeen hundreds whose 
lives lapped over that mysterious one-hundredth year 
which is just like any other year, but there is a weird 
something about it, indescribable, impossible of defini- 
tion, which makes it different. I am certain that those 
of us who awoke on the morning of the first day of 
January in the year of grace 1900, had a consciousness 
of passing into a new age, although — not to revive the 
ancient controversy but merely to assert the indisputable 
fact — the new century did not begin until a year later. 
How painfully modern Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Cole- 
ridge and Mr. Shelley must have seemed to the men 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 27 

who knew so well their Crabbe and their Cowper. It 
has always been my opinion that the unfortunates who 
happen to be born exactly in the middle of a century 
are taken at an unfair advantage by those who arrive in 
a century's closing years or in its opening days. They 
grow old-fashioned so much sooner. In Comyn Carr's 
book of reminiscences (published in 1908) — by no 
means one of those dull productions about which we 
were chatting a few pages back — he says heroically 
that he is not very gravely discouraged by occasion- 
ally finding himself ranked as a champion of an out- 
worn fashion, but he groans over the revelation of a 
"cultivated young writer of the newer school" that 
'among men of culture Dickens is now never read after 
the age of fourteen !' This cultivated young writer — 
we must take Mr. Carr's word as to his culture, for 
otherwise one would be likely to consider him what 
Lord Dundreary called "wather an ass" — must have 
been trying to impose upon the credulous old gentlemen 
who frankly owns that he was born in the misty mid- 
region of 1849. What pained me most was the meek 
and submissive acquiescence of Carr in his relegation to 
the category of back numbers, at the surely not venera- 
ble age of fifty-nine. As Thomas Bailey Aldrich said 
the day after his birthday, "It is unpleasant to be 
fifty-nine, but it would be unpleasanter not to be, hav- 
ing got started!" I insist, however, that it is not 
enough to warrant the exile of any ordinary person from 
the realms of contemporaneous interest. Dickens, Thack- 
eray, Hawthorne, Tennyson, Browning, all great Vic- 
torians, if an American may be reckoned in that class, 
are not, I venture to* say, as obsolete as the cultivated 
infant would have us believe ; if they were, there would 
not be so much said of them and written of them in 



28 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

this fast aging first decade of the twentieth century. 
Returning to Dickens, I prefer to the babe's prattle of 
Carr's young interlocutor, the dictum of Chesterton, 
when he tells us "that Dickens will have a high place 
in permanent literature there is, I imagine, no prig sur- 
viving to deny." 

In a time so remote that I shrink from mentioning 
the date precisely, I overheard a young prig say to the 
feminine companion whom he was escorting to her home 
after listening to a lecture by Charles Sumner, "he 
suits the masses". It was a singularly inept remark as 
applied to the stilted and artificial oratory of the pom- 
pous Senator; but the fact that "he suits the masses" 
may well be cited to warrant the assurance of the last- 
ing quality of Dickens' fame. The lesser lights are 
growing pale and dim in comparison with his and with 
that of his illustrious compeer, who ranks higher per- 
haps in the estimation of the "cultured" but no higher 
in the favor of the general. Bulwer Lytton, Charlotte 
Bronte, Trollope, and George Eliot, if we may group 
together stars of such varying magnitude, shine more 
feebly than they did while they were in the full blaze 
of their glory. But when one takes from the shelf or 
from the library table a volume of Dickens or of 
Thackeray, he may well exclaim, as was said of the 
Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, "This is no book; 
who touches this, touches a man." 

Many of us still retain an affection for Trollope, 
even if he was, as some recent compilers of literary 
hand-books say, "one of the most boisterous, tactless 
and unmetaphysical of writing men" — all the more 
precious to me because of his unmetaphysicality. In 
novels 'a bas metaphysics !' If it be true, as these auto- 
cratic tyrants of taste aver, that he "keeps his nose close 



AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 29 

down, dog-like, to the prosaic texture of life," he pur- 
sued the game to good purpose. To all lawyers, he 
must ever be dear because of his delightful Old Bailey 
character of Chaffanbrass ; to all the clergy he must 
be a source of joy for his innumerable bishops, rectors 
and curates; and to all physicians a lovable man for 
Doctor Thorne. Was he not as much unlike Haw- 
thorne as one novelist may be unlike another, yet did 
not Hawthorne say that Trollope's work "suited" him? 
"They precisely suit my taste" wrote the author of the 
Scarlet Letter, "solid and substantial, written on the 
strength of beef, and through the inspiration of ale, and 
just as real as if some giant had hewn a great lump out 
of the earth and put it under a glass case, with all its 
inhabitants going about their daily business and not 
suspecting that they were made a show of." Yet in 
these days they cannot be expected to compete with 
such illuminating representations of real life as may 
be found in the pages of — let us say — Elinor Glyn, who 
manifestly aspires to be the Aphra Behn of modern 
literature. 

It is some consolation to realize that we commencing 
patriarchs are able to 1 get more satisfaction from our 
comfortable places at the library table than others get 
from the seats of the mighty at horse-shows, bridge 
tournaments, automobile contests, and golf competi- 
tions. An enthusiastic golfer once confided to me that 
the most charming adjunct of his sport was the shandy- 
gaff and the high ball which otherwise the stern decree 
of the medical man would have denied to him. Let us 
say it in all modesty and self-depreciation, we know so 
much more than is known by the modern smooth-faced 
devotee of the safety razor, who freely permits the un- 
attractive contour of his mouth to betray the imperfec- 



3 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

tions of his character. I am convinced that if the cus- 
tomary motor-car fiend would shroud his expression in 
hirsute concealment he would appear far less fierce and 
domineering. If language was given to us to conceal 
thought, surely beards were meant to hide brutality. 
Even these young people will come in time to the con- 
sciousness of their present ignorance and the realization 
of the truth that men learn by experience. Aldrich — not 
Nelson, the tariff-king, but Thomas, a king of modern 
American letters — said "I often feel sorry for ac- 
tresses who are always too old to play Juliet by the 
time they have learned how to do it. I know how to 
play Hamlet and Romeo now, but my figure doesn't 
fit the parts." Sad it is to reflect that our figures are 
unfitted for the roles we would so hugely enjoy. Pos- 
sibly it would be better for us if we ventured more in 
the outer world and spent less time at the library table ; 
but we cannot always bestride the galloping horse or 
trifle with the fascinating brassie. It will be only a few 
years before riders and golfers alike will meet us in the 
fields where we will all be reduced to socialistic uni- 
formity, as I am taught to believe. Then, perhaps, I 
may not regret that I yielded, willingly and lovingly, 
to the temptations of the library table. 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 

IN the neighboring city of Chicago they have a 
club which boasts the name of "The Dofobs". 
It is not a pretty name but it means much to the 
members. Every two or three years it produces 
a Year Book and it has printed "The Love Let- 
ters of Nathaniel Hawthorne", a copy of which now 
and then appears at the auction block and is sold for a 
fabulous price. Aside from such occasional diversions, 
these people indulge in pure Dofobery, which is not 
really as bad as it sounds. It signifies a peculiar rela- 
tion towards books and bookish things ; not a mania for 
books, but a comfortable enjoyment of them; not a 
craving for them solely because they happen to be old, 
or rare, or famous, but a delight in them and in the 
associations which cluster about them, in talking about 
them, in scribbling about them, in amusing oneself 
with them. It does not require much sagacity to read 
between the letters of the name; for most people know 
what "d.f." stands for, and "d.o.f." is only a variation. 
A Dofob does not trouble himself much about what 
others think of him or of his favorite pursuits, because 
he has what may be fairly styled the true Dofobian 
spirit and lives up to the immortal definition of an hon- 
est man as enunciated by the philosopher Timothy 
Toodles. The honest man, according to the dictum 
of that profound observer, was one who did not care a 
small Indian copper coin of trifling value — that is to 
say, a dam; although I think the philosopher added 

31 



32 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

some superfluous words about not caring that for what 
sort of coat a man wore as long as his heart was in the 
right place. This sartorial and physiological supple- 
ment is immaterial, for the truth of the characterization 
lies in the primary expression : perhaps the word "con- 
tinental" prefixed to the name of the coin would impart 
to the definition a distinctively American flavor. 

Mr. Growoll in his interesting account of American 
Book Clubs tells of a number of these associations, 
whose laudable purposes are grave, serious and edify- 
ing; wrapped in a mantle of dignity which is most 
becoming but which arouses emotions of awe rather than 
of sympathy. The Dofob is not as serious as the Gro- 
lierite or the Caxtonian. The fact that many of his 
fellow-beings look upon him as an individual of imper- 
fect intelligence because of his inordinate interest in 
books, he considers to be equivalent to a patent of 
nobility; for if he loves a particular book with a passion 
transcending all others, he is thereby raised, in his own 
estimation, far above the ordinary level of mankind 
and looks down from empyrean heights on those who 
are not sufficiently endowed with intellect or with 
intuition to comprehend that the veritable Dofob is the 
only person who possesses the power of recognizing at 
sight the very best and worthiest of all the books ever 
printed since the days of Fust and Gutenberg. With a 
superb self-appreciation and yet with the greatest affec- 
tion and respect for my companions in Dofobishness, I 
own that in the depths of my being I consider no indi- 
vidual Dofob to be quite as praiseworthy, deserving and 
omniscient as I am. I regard myself as preeminently a 
D.O.F. and all that those letters imply, happy in the 
contentment which usually results from absolute self 
conceit. Our chief pleasure is in being regarded as con- 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 33 

firmed and irresponsible cranks, defying the contumely 
of the world, hugging to our bosoms our pet delusions 
and willing to let other Dofobs hug theirs as closely. 
I might however be jealous if any one of them should 
hug too long and affectionately my own sweetheart 
book, for lovely books are as delightful but often as 
untrustworthy as lovely women. They are apt to run 
off with some millionaire. I am sadly conscious of the 
fact that the much prized Davenant folio or my Beau- 
mont and Fletcher would be as happy in the arms of 
another as they are in my own. I think that I may as 
well abandon the metaphor here and now, for I may be 
unwittingly led into something which is described in the 
catalogues as "curious" or "facetious". The man who 
was arrested for stealing a folio Shakespeare which he 
was lugging home after the fashion of Charles Lamb 
and who pleaded that it was a joke, was justly reminded 
by the wise magistrate that he was carrying the joke 
too far. (Cf. Joseph Miller's Reports, passim). 
There is such a thing as carrying an analogy a little too 
far. 

Parenthetically, one is moved to inquire why it is 
that we Dofobs who write about books are accustomed 
to adopt a style of labored facetiousness, for books are 
serious things. It is like the fashion of those who relate 
the history of old New York and who assume the tone 
of "Knickerbocker" : or of the delineator of life in the 
far west who cannot help imitating Bret Harte as the 
novelist of adventure in knighthood days imitates Sir 
Walter Scott. Books ought to be worthy of pure John- 
sonese, the only dialect of dignity enough to deal with 
so solemn a subject. 

A Dofob would not assert with offensive pride that 
the majority of people in this prosperous country are 



34 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

devoid of a real affection for books, but he is sorry for 
some of those who fondly imagine that they are book- 
ish, occasionally reveal their inmost thoughts about 
books, and unconsciously disclose their sad incapacity 
to understand the essential nature of book-loving. In 
the matter of bindings, for example, there is commonly 
a lamentable ignorance. A few years ago I fortunately 
discovered a book printed in the latter part of the 
eighteenth century, produced in New York, and bound 
in the fine old calf of the period: a little dilapidated by 
the ravages of time and the bookseller's shelves, but 
by no means in a state of ruin. That very binding 
made it cost me a goodly sum, for the contents were of 
no general interest; the book itself, the entity, binding 
and all, gave it value. I honored that book and after 
petting it properly, gladly gave it to a dear old gentle- 
man, the only man in the city who knew anything about 
the subject dealt with in the book. A few weeks later 
he proudly brought it back to me in order that I might 
inscribe a few words on the fly-leaf, and he said with 
considerable satisfaction, "You see, sir, that I have it 
neatly rebound!" And so he had, to my horror. The 
splendid old calf — I am referring to the binding — in 
which a Dofob would have rejoiced greatly, had been 
replaced by smug, cheap and modern cloth. Then it 
was that I grieved because my vocabulary was limited 
to the few thousand words which the devotee of statis- 
tics allows to the average man. All the languages of 
Mezzofanti could not have done justice to the situa- 
tion ; but the heroic self-restraint of a Dofob came into 
play and I suffered in silence. The honest but misguided 
friend will never know the full extent of the crime, and 
as the book is more to his liking in its present garb 
than it was in what he was pleased to call its "shabby" 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 35 

•dress, it would have been needlessly cruel to undeceive 
him; and, after all, the matter was beyond remedy. 

The kind friend who understands the intricacies of 
the stock-market and who tells me much that I care 
not for, about my garden, where I should buy my 
clothes, and what I should have in my library; who 
enlightens me, as many of our merciless fellow-beings 
love to do, about all questions of religion or of poli- 
tics; the dear creature who is fond of saying "Now, 
what you ought to do is" — whatever in the plentitude 
of his self-contentment he ardently believes to be what 
every one else should do, because he does it; this one, 
I say, seldom knows anything about bindings. "/ buy 
books to read", he brags, as if one could not read com- 
fortably a well-bound book. If you mention Tout, or 
Riviere, or Hayley, or Zaehnsdorf, to say nothing of 
Lortic, Prideaux, De Sauty or Cobden-Sanderson, he 
stares at you with glassy eyes of indifference and per- 
haps he calls your attention to a Barrie "edition de 
looks", or to some of the paralyzing productions which 
the simple-minded are deluded into purchasing by the 
influence of alluring advertisements and insinuating 
circulars designed to mislead the ambitious but unwary 
buyers of books in the market-place. 

I plead guilty to the charge of being a dreary old 
fool over books, but chiefly over old books, for they 
have a settled and permanent character which no one 
may impeach. We may be tolerably sure about them; 
they are generally what they seem to be, with their 
broad margins, their solid, substantial type, and their 
charming air of dignity. Most of the books of our day 
are unworthy of absolute confidence, and their paper, 
their binding, and their typography are a source of grief 



36 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

to the judicious. The man whose literary pabulum is 
sufficiently supplied by his daily newspaper may ask 
why an old book, with aged and decayed covers, is bet- 
ter than a new one with that outward adornment of 
gilt which some publishers delight to lavish upon us. 
The sagacious Dofob will not undertake the task of 
breaking his way into the solid density of such a mind 
or of explaining to him the reason, for the game is not 
worth the candle. When I was a boy I rashly at- 
tempted to convince a likely colored lad that slavery 
was right and should never be abolished, but to my 
fervid eloquence he invariably responded "Well, I 
doan' know 'bout that". It was an effective rejoinder 
and I now believe that he was fairly entitled to his 
name of Solomon. The smart individual of these times 
is beyond the reach of argument, and all one can do is 
to say to him, "Go to your newspaper, buy subscrip- 
tion editions of 'standard authors', fill your shelves with 
'the best sellers', and be as happy as you may". 

But notwithstanding what I have just said, it is a fa- 
vorite fallacy quite prevalent among the uninitiated that 
a book must be old in order to attract the bibliolater. 
True, as Emily Dickinson, with a magnificent disre- 
gard of rhyme, sings : 

"A precious mouldering pleasure 'tis 
To meet an antique book, 
In just the dress his century wore : 
A privilege, I think." 

A Dofob, however, does not restrict himself to such 
dolorous delights as "mouldering pleasures", and sees 
no good reason why he should not be fascinated by 
something fresh from a good press as well as by what 
writers about books are addicted to calling "musty 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 37 

tomes". A "tome", I believe has come to mean "a 
large book", but a Dofob does not necessarily prize it 
above a slender duodecimo, any more than he would 
prefer a fat friend to a thin one; and while gray hairs 
may be held dear, blond locks and jetty curls may be 
just as winning. A thoughtful physician once told me 
that he never read a book that was less than ten years 
old; he was not and could never be a Dofob. The rule 
may be well enough when applied to fiction, and a rigid 
observance of it would save some valuable time; but 
why should a man living in the earliest quarter of the 
last century have delayed for a decade the reading of 
Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound", or "Rob Roy", or 
"The Heart of Midlothian," or the two precious 
volumes of Charles Lamb's works", then given to the 
world? A Dofob cannot be persuaded that any book 
should be neglected because it is old or condemned 
merely because it is new. The passion for rare relics 
of antiquity is one not difficult to comprehend, but it is 
not exclusive of a passion for the best of modern books. 
Whether the date upon the title be that of the reign of 
Elizabeth or of the time of Victoria or Edward, "a 
book's a book for a' that". 

There is a good deal of sameness in the praises of 
books by book-lovers. In his Anthology called "Book 
Song", Mr. Gleeson White says: "friends that never 
tire, that cannot be scorned or dallied with, is an idea 
that recurs constantly", and in regard to those eulogies 
of special volumes with which most of us are familiar, 
he remarks justly, "at times the pride of ownership 
becomes a little irritating and seems deliberately worded 
to provoke jealousy". It is a characteristic of Dofob- 
ishness that the Dofob does not indulge in panegyrics 
upon his own property, although he may do a little pri- 



38 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

vate bragging among intimates. He may dote upon the 
book of another, and borrow it too, giving no credence 
to the common delusion that a borrowed book, is never 
returned. That is where he shows his superiority over 
the ordinary man. Nor does he glorify his books as 
"friends who never tire". I would not care much for 
any friend who was so devoid of human qualities as not 
to be tiresome now and then. A companion who was 
always entertaining would be a cloying sort of person, 
and even his perfections would grow wearisome in time. 
The book has an advantage over a friend in this, that it 
may be thrown in a corner, or thrust in a cabinet, or ban- 
ished to the back-rows when its allurements begin to 
pall, and if it experiences any sense of resentment or 
mortification at such a summary dismissal, it gives no 
outward or visible signs of dissatisfaction. Moreover 
books are immensely superior to human friends for they 
never "call one up" on the telephone, that imperious 
invader of peace and comfort, a modern affliction more 
dreadful even than the motor-cycle, that Moloch of the 
highways, because it has a wider field of operation. 
One may have some respect for the automobile, king of 
our roads, but for the vulgar, snorting tyrant, the degra- 
dation of a graceful, noiseless bicycle, naught but dis- 
gust and horror. No self-respecting horse can meet it 
without justifiable rebellion. I have found it the Jug- 
gernaut of New Jersey. 

Few comprehend fully the bookishness of a book, its 
deserving dignity, and its peculiar sensitiveness. This 
man will deliberately turn down the corner of a leaf, 
and that man will cut the sheets with rude, iconoclastic 
finger or ruthlessly bend open the tender volume until 
its back is well-nigh broken. There ought to be a con- 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 39 

stitutional provision against cruel and unusual punish- 
ments of books, for surely they are fellow-citizens of 
worth and as much entitled to protection as the red men 
of the West who have recently been added to the num- 
ber of our masters, or the voluble and dagger-loving 
emigrant from Italy who comes to us with droves of his 
kind and cheerfully stabs his women or his rivals in our 
public streets. I shudder when I remember how often 
I have beheld the shocking spectacle of a Philistine 
actually pulling a book from the shelf by the top, or 
wetting his fingers as he turned the pages of a sacred 
first edition. But it is better not to dwell upon such 
harrowing subjects. 

However boastful, arrogant and censorious these 
deliberations may appear, I protest that I am not quite 
as conceited as I pretend to be. The bravado is assumed. 
I am really humble, conscious of my limitations, and 
profoundly deferential towards the experts who are 
masters of book-history and are able to "collate", while 
I am, by natural incapacity, utterly unable to share in 
the collation. I admire these mighty men afar off, and 
am devoured by envy of their learning. Let me how- 
ever disclose the miserable truth that I find old Dibdin 
stupid, that I am dreadfully bored by the tedious cata- 
logues given to us from time to time by some of our 
non-Dofobian book-clubs, and that in fact I abhor all 
catalogues of things which I can never hope to call my 
own. It may be a mark of genuine Dofobery to scorn 
scientific book-description; it always makes me uneasy 
and discontented. It affects me much in the same way 
as the formal phrases of what the companion of my 
childhood, (bookishly speaking) Captain Mayne Reid, 
used to call "the closet naturalists" — now known as 



4 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

"nature fakirs" — must affect men who pursue the tre- 
mendous teddy-bear and the boracious bob-cat in their 
native wilds. I am so much in love with my own few 
books that I would no more dream of regarding them 
from the cataloguer's point of view than I would of 
measuring my Dulcinea's features in order to ascertain 
whether or not she comes up to the standard of beauty 
prescribed by the dull and pedantic persons who reduce 
everything to formulas. 

Candidly, anything hereinbefore contained to the 
contrary notwithstanding, I believe that in our beloved 
country there are more enthusiastic lovers of books than 
may be found in any other land. Yet, if I am not 
sadly mistaken, England is the paradise of Dofobs. She 
ought to be; she is so much older than we are; she was 
bookish when we were busy in building an empire and 
boasted more bears than books. It makes my heart 
palpitate when I glance over the fascinating lists of 
Sotheby, Wilkinson and Hodge, and see what the 
libraries of the well-to-do Britons disgorge without 
ostentation, — treasures which make the book-lover's 
soul thrill with the indescribable tremor which only a 
long-desired book can bring. I find myself wondering 
whether it will go on forever, if the resources of the 
innumerable "gentleman's libraries" in England will be 
exhausted in our own time at least. I trust not, 
although I fear that the insatiable demands of American 
buyers may ultimately absorb the supply. I am not by 
any means an Anglomaniac, for our English cousins are 
fast becoming too socialistic for my taste, but surely 
their auction-sales are more attractive than ours, and 
what is more delectable than one of their best "book 
shops"? Why cannot we have such palaces of joy as 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 41 

those which may be found on the Strand, or in Picca- 
dilly, or in the regions adjacent to the British Museum, 
or indeed in other places than London, where a Dofob 
may discover almost everything necessary to sate his 
appetite. I am affectionately reminiscent of Maggs's. 
I am not trying to advertise Maggs's; the name is not 
beautiful, euphonious, or seductive; it reminds one of 
the nomenclature of Dickens. But the shop is a dream, 
the managers are tactful and considerate, and there one 
may browse undisturbed and uninterrupted, with no 
sorrow but that which comes from the fact that while 
the prices are low when compared with ours, the purse 
of a plutocrat could never suffice to give us all the jewels 
preserved in the coffers of those polite and kindly ven- 
dors of dainties. I do not know what may be in Chi- 
cago, but in New York we have scarcely anything as 
alluring or as charming. Why are we denied such lux- 
uries ? When I am daring enough to enter the precincts 
of a New York "book-store" — it is never a "shop" — I 
approach the majestic salesman with fear and trembling, 
having already left my pocket-book with the gentle cab- 
man. Does the nobleman lead me smilingly to a quiet 
recess, place a chair and a table at my disposal, and 
with tender solicitude submit to me the latest acquisition, 
the first edition, the extra-illustrated treasure, the auto- 
graph letter or manuscript which has just "come in" 
and has not yet been advertised or catalogued? By no 
means; he regards me with the same contemptuous 
hauteur which is displayed by the clerk of a popular 
hotel when I register my name and plead for "a room 
with bath". I depart from the chilly halls feeling that 
I ought to be ashamed for having disturbed the lofty 
serenity of the supercilious magnate. They do these 
things better in France and in England : better in almost 



42 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

every other country as those who have had experience- 
well know. They are content, these foreigners, with 
moderate profits. It is true that an American book- 
seller is obliged to pay higher rent and is subjected to 
heavier expenses because of the extravagant exactions 
of almost every one in this free land of ours — except, 
of course, the modest and diffident lawyers. Patriotism 
does not require one to acquiesce uncomplainingly in the 
exorbitant prices of our own book dealers. Let me 
however be fair and qualify my sweeping assertions: I 
know a few very decent book-vendors in New York and 
in Boston who want to be reasonable and are "not so 
bad". I am grateful to them for many favors. In the 
words of Heron-Allen's "Ballade of Olde Books", 

"I've haunted Brentano and John Delay, 
And toyed with their stories of France so free, 
At Putnam's and Scribner's from day to day 
I've flirted with Saltus and Roe (E. P.) : 
But weary of all, I have turned with glee 
To Bouton's murk shelves with their wealth untold, 
Yearning for Quaritch in Piccadilly 
Where the second-hand books are bought and sold." 

This would be more accurate if some of the names were 
changed. I plead not guilty to Saltus and Roe, and I 
may perhaps be forgiven for not remembering at the 
moment who John Delay was or is. 

Why do we allow such sordid considerations as prices 
to influence us in any way? Most of us Dofobs are 
devoid of a surplus of funds, but we value our pos- 
sessions all the more because we may have had to make 
some sacrifices to secure them. If we were indifferent 
about cost, we would lose much of the pleasure of 
ownership. I well remember the time when I abstained 



THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB 43 

from luncheon in order to buy a second-hand, shabby 
volume at Leggatt's. I do not have to deny now my 
appetite for mid-day food, but whenever I come upon 
one of those old books in my peregrinations about the 
library, I have the pleasant little throb of the heart 
which brings back to me the ardor of youth, and those 
cheap treasures take to' themselves a halo which tran- 
scends the brilliancy of even an illuminated missal or a 
noble Caxton. Those long cherished companions speak 
to me in eloquence scarcely to be comprehended by one 
who is not a Dofob to the core. 

We are grateful to the kindly dealers who send to us 
catalogues full of temptations for those who are so 
ready to be tempted. With James Freeman Clarke, 
already quoted, we repeat that "it is a pleasure even to 
read the description and the title", and often like Eu- 
gene Field of blessed memory we mark the items which 
are too bewitching to resist as if we were going to ac- 
quire them and then either forget about them or resolve 
that our purse cannot afford the luxury, afterwards con- 
fident that we bought them and searching for them in 
vain in the entrancing regions of the book-cases. 

Then what an insane joy there is in arranging the 
volumes, sometimes lamenting because the shelves are 
not exactly adapted to the association of fellow-books. 
so that we fear that they will not be as friendly one to 
another as we would like to have them. If any one 
needs occupation for a rainy day, what more agreeable 
work may he find than that of assorting the books, so 
that not only will their sky-line be less jagged than 
that of lower New York, but that their contents may 
be of a nature to make them as sociable as they ought 
to be: while it must be borne in mind that the colors of 
their bindings should not be too glaringly inharmonious. 



44 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

And after all have been arranged, it is the joy of the 
genuine Dofob to arrange them all over again. There 
are times when the shelves overflow, and then comes the 
question of a new book-case and a still graver question 
as to where it shall be placed, leading to a further 
question about the enlargement of the house, which 
should be constructed on the Globe-Wernicke princi- 
ple, for the main use of a house is to store books in it. 
But there comes to every Dofob the thought that it 
will not be long before he must leave them. What is to 
become of them? No one will ever worship them as 
he has done all his life. They are interwoven with his 
existence and it is pitiful to think that he must be 
parted from them. I fear that in the world of the 
hereafter there may be no books, but it is not easy 
for me to imagine a heaven where books are not. I 
do not mean to be irreverent and I do not know whether 
I may attain even a bookless heaven, but I am unortho- 
dox enough to own that I might prefer a bookish 
Hades. 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 

I HATE an orderly library. It has a formal air 
which repels familiarity; one cannot ramble 
in it, stroll aimlessly about it, come upon unex- 
pected "finds", or pluck a blossom here and 
there without fear of consequences. It is as 
devoid of charm as the stiff, uncompromising gardens 
of the eighteenth century which arouse ill temper by 
their arrogant right-angles. The card-catalogue itself 
is an encourager of angry passions; and glass doors 
are odiously inhospitable. What care I if dust accumu- 
late? It is a blessed privilege to brush it off. What 
need have I of a card-index, when in hunting for what 
I want I may discover treasures hitherto lost to' mem- 
ory? When I encounter glass doors, those grudging 
guardians of the sanctuary, I long to fracture the panes 
with one mighty kick, for they are offensive with their 
noli me tangere exclusiveness. I want my books where 
I need not open a door to get at them or climb a lad- 
der to reach them. 

Not that I am averse to a certain method of arrange- 
ment, or to a well-defined color-scheme in the matter of 
bindings. No one wishes to put a tiny i6mo by the 
side of a towering quarto, or to fill the lower shelves 
with duodecimos and the upper ones with folios; nor 
does any one desire to fret his eyes by massing together 
colors which scream at each other and disturb the peace. 
I would not have Petroleum V. Nasby or the Orpheus 
C. Kerr Papers elbowing the "voluminous pages" of 

45 



46 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Gibbon or the serious dignity of Grote; but Boswell 
and Trevelyan need not be aggrieved by a close prox- 
imity to such inferior productions as Collingwood's 
Life of Lewis Carroll or Hallam Tennyson's disap- 
pointing Memoir of his illustrious father. "There are 
few duller biographies", says Augustine Birrell, "than 
those written by wives, secretaries, or other domesti- 
cated creatures. Neither the purr of the hearth-rug 
nor the unemancipated admiration of the private sec- 
retary should be allowed to dominate a biography". 
True, Trevelyan was Macaulay's nephew, but he was 
barely of age when his uncle died, and had not yet been 
wholly "domesticated". 

It is almost needless to say that these wise utterances 
are not intended to apply to public libraries, those mau- 
soleums of books, where one may "consult volumes" 
but never really read them; for how is it possible for 
anybody who is not endowed with a power of phenom- 
enal self-absorption, to forget that the custodians, al- 
though unseen, are perpetually on guard, while the 
enforced silence of the place is a constant temptation, 
well-nigh irresistible, to arouse the echoes with defiant 
yells. In one of those halls of grandeur miscalled "read- 
ing rooms", I am always reminded of "study hour" in 
school, and am in momentary expectation of hearing 
some one ask of the grim presiding functionary the old, 
familiar question, "Please, sir, may I go out?" 

In every true library, there are sacred corners. In 
their cosy precincts you do not usually come upon the 
dress-parade volumes, imposing in their garb of pol- 
ished calf or of velvety morocco, addressing you in 
solemn accents, reminding you of the aristocracy of 
their long descent, forbidding you to disturb them by 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 47 

casual pullings-down or thoughtless turning of their 
chilly pages. Their glacial aspect appals the ardent 
lover and freezes the founts of affection. These are sel- 
dom to be found in corners; they demand the showy 
places on the shelves where they may intimidate 
the beholder and turn him away abashed at their im- 
pressive array. They are as much shut off from the ad- 
mirer's fond touch as are the alleged crown-jewels in the 
Tower or the priceless manuscripts in the British Mu- 
seum. My ideal library is composed chiefly of corners 
where one may linger in morning-jacket and slippers, 
and not be conscious of the need of attiring himself in 
the evening garments which conventionality decrees to 
be necessary for those who take part in stately func- 
tions. I often long to disarrange the symmetry of 
some "gentleman's library", just as when reading John- 
son, or Gibbon, or Hamilton W. Mabie I have a fiend- 
ish propensity to split an infinitive or to end a sentence 
with a preposition. 

Now if I were bent on making a foolish pretense of 
what is known as "good taste", which I have no> right 
or disposition to boast of, I would assert untruthfully, 
but no one could disprove it, that in these snug retreats 
I feast upon "The Proficience and Advancement of 
Learning", or Evelyn's Diary, or Pepys, or Sir Thomas 
Browne, or Elia. Every one who affects a literary 
"pose" is given to praising Elia; and there are few more 
precious books in the world. Yet if those immortal 
essays should appear to-day for the first time, they 
would have only what the newspapers style a "limited 
circulation". A dinosaurus would have just as much 
popularity in the annual Horse Show, for they belong 
to the era of the stage-coach when people did not "do 
the Lake Country" in an escorted tour on a Hodgman 



4 8 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

car, and the Venetian gondola had not been crowded out 
of the Grand Canal by snorting motor-boats; when there 
were great men; poets, novelists, essayists, historians 
and statesmen. To the question, "Why have we no 
great men?" Mr. Chesterton rejects the answer that 
it is because of "advertisement, cigarette smoking, the 
decay of religion, the decay of agriculture, too much 
humanitarianism, too little humanitarianism, the fact 
that people are educated insufficiently, the fact that they 
are educated at all". But his own answer, "We have no 
great men chiefly because we are always looking for 
them", may be smart, but it is not convincing. The fact 
is that we do not have great men chiefly because we think 
we have no need of them. 

The craze for equality has so possessed our minds 
that if one of us is presumptuous enough to thrust his 
head above the struggling mob that surrounds him, we 
set to work with one accord to pull him down, for who 
is he, forsooth, that he should assume to know more 
than we do or to be more than we are? In the days 
when the ignorant and the mediocre had not come to 
understand the might of their power, there were lead- 
ers; but however greatly they may need wise leaders 
now, they have become the leaders themselves and the 
ambitious are only astute and adroit followers. The 
state of the times is reflected in our literature; and as 
every man has arrived at the belief that he is an infalli- 
ble judge upon questions of politics and of government, 
so he fancies that he is divinely endowed as a judge of 
all things literary. Thus it has come to pass that the 
guerdon of fame is bestowed, not upon the best book 
but upon the best seller. It has also come to pass that 
the only individual who is allowed to dominate his race 
is the editor of a newspaper. Great is the power of 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 49 

humbug; there is but one god, which is "the people", — 
and the editor is his prophet. Every one from the 
cardinal to the curate, from the President to the post- 
master, trembles before the majesty of a malicious mon- 
key who by some mischance has contrived to get hold 
of a printing-press; for his penny compendium of slan- 
der and of crimes reaches the sons of manual toil who 
go to their work in the early morning, filled with envy 
of the well-to-do, grumbling at the fate which condemns 
them to labor while men whom they regard as no better 
than themselves enjoy sports and luxuries denied to 
them, ready to drink in the flattery addressed to them 
and rejoicing in the bitterest of assaults upon wealth and 
vested interests. No one is great to them except the 
crafty demagogue who ministers to their self- import- 
ance. 

The mild and gentle Thomas Bailey Aldrich said in 
a moment of unusual irritation: "American newspapers 
are fearfully and wonderfully made. If about twenty 
thousand of them could be suppressed, the average 
decency of the world would be increased from twenty- 
five to fifty per cent." This is no new cry; but it does 
not avail much to us soured old sufferers from their 
multitudinous lies and libels, to retire to our library 
corners and scold at them. In spite of our complaints, 
we think it a hardship if we cannot peer at them through 
our glasses over the matutinal coffee and enjoy their lies 
— about other people. 

Great is the power of humbug, I repeat, with an air 
of imparting a new and important truth. I have just 
been reading — in a corner — a sketch of James Kent by 
Mr. James Brown Scott. He says of Charles Sumner 
that he, said Sumner, was "an ornament of the bar as 
he later was an ornament of the Senate". But Sumner 



50 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

was not a real lawyer; he was not fitted for the conflicts 
of the bar. There is nothing like the battles of the law 
to take the vanity and pomposity out of a man. I do 
not wish to be understood as saying that there are no 
vain or pompous members of the legal profession, but 
they seldom win much respect or distinction. I doubt 
even if Sumner can justly be called "an ornament of the 
Senate". He never did anything, he never originated 
anything; he only "orated", so that in a sense he may 
have been ornamental; surely not useful. His speeches 
were carefully prepared and rehearsed; he was weak 
in debate. If any one cares to waste time upon the 
speech for which he was caned by Preston Brooks, he 
will be amazed at the scurrility of the language and 
the indecency of the vituperation. It is hard to believe 
that a man of his stalwart frame could be permanently 
injured by the blows of a light stick such as the one 
which Brooks used that day. The assault was a 
wicked performance, but Washington laughed in its 
sleeve over the outcry which the castigated one 
made about it. In those days the anti-slavery speakers 
were hunting for martyrdom, and Sumner made the 
most of his beating. In course of time, he was sup- 
planted, as a martyr, by the deified horse-thief and 
murderer, John Brown. When the Senator assumed 
to dictate to Grant, he found his well-merited fate, and 
he has passed into oblivion. His useful, modest, hard- 
working colleague, Henry Wilson, as earnest and 
enthusiastic an opponent of slavery as Sumner was, is 
far better entitled to be called "an ornament of the Sen- 
ate" than his more cultured but less effective associate. 

Down in a quiet corner hides an humble cloth-clad 
little book which scarcely any one cares for except 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 51 

myself, and its interest to me comes less from its mild 
satire than from my affection for its author. "Salander 
and the Dragon, by Frederick William Shelton, M.A. 
Rector of St. John's Church, Huntington, N. Y.", with 
Its Goodman, its Duke d'Envy, its Gudneiburud, 
Drownthort, and all the other parodies of Bunyan's 
nomenclature, makes dull reading for the present gen- 
eration, and it may be that my liking for it is only a 
form of perverse vanity. As I glance over the faded 
leaves, they bring before me the gentle, scholarly Shel- 
ton, who had been my father's class-mate at Princeton — 
delightfully old-fashioned in the time when I had a 
boyish acquaintance with him. He was quite like his 
books, small, decorous, with a gleam of the humorous 
mingled with reflective sadness. I can fancy his shudder 
of dismay over most of our present-day sensational, 
highly-colored "literature" falsely so-called. I never 
knew more than two persons who had ever read "Sal- 
ander". But it aroused my indignation a year or two 
ago to read in a flippant review published in one of our 
magazines, a contemptuous reference to Doctor Shelton, 
whose nature and whose style were too sweet and pure 
for the taste of the pert, feminine scribbler. 

Near the unoffending duodecimo is the well-beloved 
"Squibob Papers", not as good as the immortal "Phoe- 
nixiana" which George Derby's friends induced him to 
publish in the middle fifties, a famous precursor of our 
later and more elaborate "books of American humor". 
My copy is not of the issue of 1859, but one which was 
printed by Carleton in 1865, after the author's death. 
As most people know, poor Derby, who died at thirty- 
eight, was an officer of the Corps of Topographical En- 
gineers, or, in his own words, "a Topographical Engi- 
neer who constantly wears a citizen's dress, for fear 



52 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

some one will find it out." Comparing them with the 
Engineers, he remarked that "the Corps of Topo- 
graphical Engineers was only formed in 1838, while 
the Engineers date from the time when Noah, sick of 
the sea, landed and threw up a field-work on Mount 
Ararat". It was an odd training school for a humor- 
ist, but Derby did not need much training. 

His "great railroad project" of "The Belvidere and 
Behrings' Straits Union Railroad", with its branches to 
the North Pole "to get the ice trade", to Kamchatka 
"to secure the seal trade for the Calcutta market", and 
to Cochin China "to secure the fowl trade", reads very 
much like the prospectus of an exceeding 1 y modern en- 
terprise. His "Sewing Machine with Feline Attach- 
ment", by which a cat, induced by a suspended mouse, 
operates the mechanism, is an ingenious device, and he 
records that he "has seen one cat (a tortoise-shell) of 
so ardent and unwearying disposition, that she made 
eighteen pairs of men's pantaloons, two dozen shirts, 
and seven stitched shirts, before she lay down ex- 
hausted". The Fourth of July Oration, commemorat- 
ing our forefathers who "planted corn and built houses, 
killed the Indians, hung the Quakers and Baptists, 
burned the witches and were very happy and comforta- 
ble indeed, and fought the batt'e named 'the battle of 
Bunker Hill', on account of its not having occurred on 
a hill of that name", should never be forgotten if only 
for the story of the boy who picked his nose on the 
Fourth of July because it was Independence Day. Not 
very refined fun, you may say, but food for laughter, 
and with no taint of a peculiar kind of vulgarity which 
mars the fun of certain more classic fooling. 

Among the tenants of the corner is a cheap and shab- 
by American edition, in two fat, awkward volumes, of 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 53 

my pet novel, "Ten Thousand a Year", much pawed 
over and alas! dog's eared; while the first Eng'ish 
edition, in three volumes, (Blackwood, 1841, "original 
cloth"), is seldom aroused from its serene repose on a 
conspicuous shelf. Ten thousand pounds a year then 
stood for colossal wealth; and when my boyish mind 
first applied itself to the study of the fitful fortunes of 
Tittlebat Titmouse, that income still appeared to repre- 
sent riches beyond the dreams of avarice. When I be- 
gan the study of law, I was one day toiling over Kent's 
Commentaries, and the senior partner, bluff and kindly 
Aaron J. Vanderpoel, came upon me suddenly, crying 
out "What are you reading, young man?" I con- 
fessed, with the conscious pride which one feels when 
detected in doing something supposed to be virtuous, 
that I was reading Kent. "Don't read Kent!" he 
shouted, "read 'Ten Thousand a Year' ". Perhaps his 
advice was good; at all events I took it, and I did not 
tell him that I knew it already from cover to cover. 

It is the best "lawyer's novel" ever written, even if 
it is full of doubtful law. For the hundredth time you 
will follow with eager interest the progress of the great 
suit of Doe ex dem. Titmouse vs. loiter, and await in 
breathless suspense the momentous decision of Lord 
Widdrington upon the question of the admission of 
that famous deed with the erasure, however well you 
may know that he is sure to exclude it; a ruling unde- 
niably wrong, but if his lordship had held otherwise 
the story must have come to a sudden and ignominious 
close at the end of the first volume. This would have 
been a calamity, although the Aubreys and their woes 
become quite fatiguing and Oily Gammon turns out to 
be "more kinds of a villain" than is to be met with in 
actual life. He deserved a different fate; he ought to 



54 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

have married Kate Aubrey, and lived unhappily ever 
afterwards. I refuse to believe that he was guilty of the 
meaner crimes attributed to him in the account of his 
dying moments; but Warren probably thought that as 
Gammon had to die, he might as well depart this life 
in the odor of perfect villainy. He, Gammon, was a 
liar, thief, perjurer, forger — almost a murderer; but 
his crowning act of infamy was to devise an elaborate 
method of suicide to defraud a life-insurance company. 
If he had lived a little longer, he might have been found 
giving a rebate or riding on a Third Avenue car with- 
out paying his fare. 

Warren had about all the worst faults chargeable 
against a novelist, yet the book has life. It may not be 
found in the drawing room or on my lady's table, or 
in the languid hands of those who continually do recline 
on the sunny side of transatlantic steamers, but it en- 
dures. The account of the election in which, to my 
secret satisfaction, Titmouse defeats Mr. Delamere, is 
far better than Dickens's attempt to describe the Eatan- 
swill contest and fully as good as Trollope's effort in 
the same field. Mr. Delamere, one of those impeccable 
figureheads created chiefly for the purpose of provid- 
ing a husband for the equally impeccable young female 
angel who is so transcendently pure that she blushes 
deeply at the mere thought of a lover, oblivious of the 
fact that her adored parents must at some time have 
surrendered shamelessly to the sway of Cupid, is almost 
too noble for words; and as for Charles Aubrey, did 
not Thackeray pronounce him to be the greatest of all 
snobs? But he is such a precious snob. 

Yet after we leave the nobility and gentry we find 
an abundance of humanity in the numerous "characters" 
who throng the pages, particularly among the lawyers. 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 55 

They would be just as well off without their impossible 
names which give them an air of unreality. But at that 
time it was a favorite custom of fiction-writers to label 
their personages with tags, and if Dickens may be 
pardoned for his Verisophts and his Gradgrinds, and 
Thackeray for Mr. Deuceace, Warren may surely be 
forgiven for Quicksilver, Subtle, Tag-rag and Going- 
Gone ; and the world will continue to apply the name of 
"Quirk, Gammon and Snap" to attorneys' firms as long 
as we have those useful adjuncts of civilization. In my 
time I have known several Quirks, not a few Gam- 
mons, and many Snaps. Snap is a sort of lawyer whom 
only a lawyer could conceive of; and Gammon, strip- 
ped of the basest of his qualities, may be encountered a 
dozen times a day between the Court House and the 
Battery. 

Not far removed from the company of Titmouse and 
Gammon, is "Trilby" ; the copy with the autograph 
letter of Du Maurier to Osgood, not the elaborately 
bound assemblage of the original Harper chapters, 
whose illustrations are so much more attractive than 
those in the later-published book, with the cancelled 
pages about Lorrimer and Joe Sibley which so offended 
the shrinking, diffident Whistler that they were remorse- 
lessly cut out — Whistler, who never hurt the feelings 
of a friend or learned "the gentle art of making ene- 
mies". Then there are "The Bab Ballads", and Lear's 
"Nonsense Book," and Alice, my Lady of Wonderland, 
and my Lady of Looking Glass country, whom so many 
adore and so many fail to comprehend. For there are 
myriads who, like the little Scotch lad, can see nothing 
in Carroll's playful extravagances except that they con- 
tain "a great deal of feection". 

It is sad that the modern disposition to overdo every- 



56 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

thing should have so trampled upon such a delicious 
thing as "Trilby"; made it so common; worn it thread- 
bare ; and when it was no longer fresh, thrown it aside 
like a shattered toy. It is a manifestation of the child- 
ishness of the multitude which goes wild over some tem- 
porary hero and then lets him fall into the limbo of the 
forgotten when there are none so poor to do him rever- 
ence. There must be some magical elixir in "Pinafore", 
for although thirty years have gone by since it sprang 
into universal favor, it still survives, is laughed at and 
admired, and is even quoted in after-dinner speeches. 
The mention of these speeches, without which no public 
or semi-public dinner is considered to be worth eating, 
brings painful reflections. We seem to be losing the 
art; perhaps we are approaching the heaviness and 
prosin'ess of our English cousins on such occasions. It 
is a melancholy thought that some reformers have intro- 
duced the plan of hearing the speeches first and devour- 
ing the dinner afterwards; and very lately diners were 
encouraged by the engraved announcement on the cards 
of invitation, that there would be "only six speeches, 
strictly limited to ten minutes each". Yet, as a rule, 
the speakers are not burning for an opportunity to talk; 
they may truly say, as a beloved college president was 
wont to remark to a disorderly class, disturbing his 
lecture with horse-play, "Young men, this may be a bore 
to you but it is infinitely more of a bore to me." There 
is difficulty in adjusting a speech to the tastes of the 
present-day dinner crowds; the time of the unending 
stream of anecdotes has passed, with its everlasting 
"that reminds me", and it seems to be succeeded by an 
epidemic of the serious, which is not easily dealt with 
in the presence of a mob flushed with champagne and 
shrouded in tobacco-smoke. Some resort to epigram, 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 57 

but in fifteen minutes the epigram begins to degenerate 
into jerky twaddle and palls upon the jaded appetite. 
Now and again the orator exhibits an inclination to do 
what our newspapers are forever howling about — to 
"probe" something or somebody; but probing is always 
a painful operation and frequently does much more 
harm than good. It is not given to many to be really 
entertaining in discourse, so that our few entertainers 
are sadly overworked. This unhappy condition of 
affairs has brought us to the latest stage of infamy, 
when post-prandial talkers demand pay for their 
performances : and we may expect to see the day or the 
night, when the star of the evening will refuse to rise in 
his place and do his act until the pecuniary reward has 
been tendered to him in specie, bills, or certified cheque. 
Fancy the toast-master's emotions if as he begins the 
familiar "We have with us to-night" he is interrupted 
by a cry from the hired guest, "You're a saxpence 
short!" 

Much unlike the books of which we have been speak- 
ing, but in its own way as attractive, is Mr. Atlay's 
"Victorian Chancellors", a collection of model biogra- 
phies, of interest not only to lawyers but to lovers of 
history. Atlay makes no claim that his undertaking is 
to be regarded as a continuation of Lord Campbell's 
"Lives", and his methods are absolutely different from 
those of Campbell, who is amusing but so palpably 
unfair and often inaccurate that full faith and credit 
cannot be given to him. I regret that the "Lives of the 
Chief Justices of the Supreme Court" have not been 
written by some competent lawyer of our time, with 
sufficient leisure and a taste for authorship, as fair and 
free from personal prejudice as Atlay's work proves 
him to be. The "Lives" that have hitherto appeared 



5 8 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

are by no means satisfactory. Flanders, Van Sant- 
voord, and Tyler, the biographer of Roger Brooke 
Taney, are painstaking enough and undoubtedly con- 
scientious, but they are of the old school, dull in style, 
with little or no sense of historical perspective. The 
biographies of Jay and of Marshall are not adequate; 
they do not reveal the men to us with that distinctness 
which is necessary to hold the reader's attention. The 
"Lives" of Chase are weak and flimsy. Some of the 
great Associate Justices might be included in the series 
— Story, Curtis, Nelson, Miller; and perhaps others — 
famous for long and faithful judicial service if not for 
surpassing legal ability. Somehow our modern writers 
are not at their best in biography; those of sufficient 
skill and industry, like Henry Adams and James Ford 
Rhodes, are led to devote themselves to general history 
which affords a broader field. Moreover, a Justice of 
the Supreme Court is not as closely identified with poli- 
tics and the administration of the government as an 
English Chancellor usually is, and the dry technical 
details of the career of a mere lawyer are not tempting 
to the man of letters. 

There is a different corner, in a darker part of the 
library, where one may well linger when the wind is in 
the east and teeth are in need of gnashing. One of the 
discomforts of advanced years is that you are unable 
to do any gnashing without inflicting more pain upon 
the gnasher than is actually worth while. In this corner 
are gathered together some of the few books which 
cannot be loved ; wall-flowers of literature, which never 
made the bookman's heart palpitate with any fond emo- 
tion. 

Here let us approach with hesitation and timidity, 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 59 

for however dry and disagreeable a book may be, still 
it is a book. "Somebody loved it". The man who 
evolved it, who brought it forth, who labored over it, 
who corrected the proofs, was pleased with it ; deformed 
and misshapen though it may be in the eyes of oth- 
ers, it was beautiful to him. Moreover, much may 
after all be learned from the poorest of books; and the 
food from which I would turn in scorn, may to another 
be palatable. Therefore I wish it to be clearly under- 
stood that in making what are called "derogatory" 
remarks about any book, I am guiltless of the offence 
of setting up my own judgment and preference against 
the view and opinion of any one else whomsoever; I 
am merely expressing my own personal feelings. If it 
be asserted by some one who chances not to agree with 
me, that these feelings are of no importance to any one 
but to myself, I may reply that I admit it and that no 
one is obliged to read what I have written ; and should 
he complain that he has paid "very hard cash" for my 
book and has a right to full consideration, I will answer, 
as Mr. Lang answered somebody, — that he should read 
Mazzini, and learn that man has no rights worth men- 
tioning, only duties. Moreover I would say to him that 
if he can prove that he paid for the volume its full 
price, and did not pick it up at a discount in some sec- 
ond-hand book shop, that refuge of lame, halt and blind 
books, or at a bargain counter in a department store, I 
will cheerfully refund his money, provided he will fur- 
nish me with a sworn affidavit declaring solemnly that 
he sincerely admires the book which I detest. But 
even the omniverous reader must like some books bet- 
ter than others. If, as was truly said, no cigars are 
bad, some are certainly more smokeable than others, 
and some pretty women are prettier than other pretty 



6o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

women. If the books I do not like were the only books 
in the world, I suppose that I would be fond of them 
as Frederick was of Ruth until he beheld the loveliness 
of Major-General Stanley's numerous daughters. 

One of the black sheep of my flock is called "Random 
Reminiscences: by Charles H. E, Brookfield", pub- 
lished in 1902. The author is the son of Thackeray's 
Brookfield, and his portrait shows what manner of man 
he must be. How any rational human being could write 
out or cause to be published such a flat, stale and un- 
profitable mess, passes understanding. The most 
wretched of anecdotes are retailed, and if he chances 
upon a fairly good one he spoils it in the telling. "I am 
not aware", he says in his preface, "that I have included 
in this volume anything which appears to me of import- 
ance; I trust that I have not either committed the 
impertinence of expressing any views." This may have 
been meant in a facetious way, but it is obviously 
so true that one is impelled to ask why on earth 
he wrote it. He is so proud of his pointless 
stories that he makes one long to go out and kill 
something, thus creating a counter-irritant. How 
can any one fail to give way to inextinguishable laugh- 
ter over this final outburst of glee: "Thanks to Dr. 
Walther and his treatment, I put on nearly 2 stone 
weight in a little over two months. I was 10 stone 4 
before I went, and 12 stone 2 when I left. And I am 
over 12 stone to-day, three years later". From his 
humor I should think that he was heavier. I have been 
waiting patiently for a second edition to ascertain wheth- 
er he has grown to any extent, but none has appeared. 
No wonder that he finished his autobiography with a 
quotation from a newspaper which said of him, on his 
supposed decease: "But, after all, it is at his club 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 61 

that he will be most missed". Jolly dog, how he must 
have warmed the cockles of their hearts with his merry 
jests ! 

In the same corner with the jovial Brookfield and his 
"twelve stone" are gathered together the various biog- 
raphies whose titles begin with "The True" or "The 
Real". I confess that I have not read through "The 
True Thomas Jefferson", although I am burdened with 
two copies, but I have ploughed through "The True 
Abraham Lincoln", and found it an ordinary piece of 
hack-work, marred by blunders. The calm assumption 
which leads a writer to proclaim that he alone portrays 
"the true" and "the real", as if all other accounts 
were false, is condemnatory at the outset. As for Jeaf- 
freson's lot, — "The Real Lord Byron" and "The Real 
Shelley", — they are monuments of dullness, the subjects 
overloaded with petty details of no value to any one. 
Mr. John Cordy Jeaffreson, who was always publishing 
"Books About" something or somebody, has presented 
to mankind his "Recollections", conspicuous chiefly for 
its covert sneers at Thackeray, whom he hated, and 
studied disparagement of the personal character of that 
giant who towered so far above Jeaffresonian pigmies. 
Jeaffreson's books belong to the Sawdust School of lit- 
erature. He has not even the brightness of Percy Fitz- 
gerald, who has so 1 long made the most of his stock in 
trade, a certain friendship and association with Dickens, 
and who in his two volumes of "Memories of an Auth- 
or" is almost as bad as Jeaffreson at his best. It is true 
that Dickens had a personal liking for Fitzgerald, when 
the latter was a contributor to "All The Year Round", 
but I believe that Charles Dickens the Younger not 
many years ago expressed some doubts as to 1 the inti- 
macy of the two men. 



62 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Jeaffreson was a weak and self-important person, 
jealous of his betters. George Somes Layard says, in 
his interesting "Life of Shirley Brooks",* that Jeaf- 
freson in his "Book of Recollections" wrote "with ill 
concealed envy of a far abler and more successful man 
than himself" a silly fling at Brooks concerning the 
name "Shirley"; aid elsewhere refers to the "Recol- 
lections" as a "querulous and pawky book". The char- 
acterization is undeniably just; plainly in accord with 
the opinion of the reading public; and the two pawky 
volumes rest peacefully in the trash corner. 

In company with Jeaffreson will be found everything 
written by Mr. William Carew Hazlitt, who, in a long 
life of devotion to the accumulation of miscellaneous 
information of doubtful value and to the parading of 
the name of Hazlitt, has caused a vast number of pages 
to be covered with typographical records of his dili- 
gence and of his unfailing capacity for making blund- 
ers. Full forty years ago he was unlucky enough to 
come into close contact with the keen lance of one 
James Russell Lowell, who riddled his editions of Web- 
ster and of Lovelace, included in John Russell Smith's 
"Library of Old Authors". Lowell wrote that "of all 
Mr. Smith's editors, Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt is the 
worst. He is at times positively incredible, worse even 
than Mr. Halliwell, and that is saying a good deal.f 
Whether Hazlitt was worth flaying as Lowell flayed 
him, may be questioned. But Hazlitt still goes on, in 
his Boeotian way; always inept; sometimes so offensive 
that, as in the case of his "Four Generations of a Lit- 
erary Family" it has been necessary to withdraw the 



*A Great Punch Editor, London, 1907. 
tMy Study Windows, 337. 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 63 

work from circulation.* An example of his "foolish 
notions" may be seen in one of his latest books, "The 
Book-Collector" (1904) which has a sub-title com- 
posed of fifty-one words. Mr. Hazlitt announces the 
astonishing generalization that the autograph collector 
does not care for books or for manuscripts beyond the 
extent of a fly leaf or inscribed title page, and that he 
is a modern and inexcusable Bagford who tears out the 
inscription and throws away the book. He cites the 
case of "a copy of Donne's Sermons, with a brilliant 
portrait of the author — and a long inscription by Izaak 
Walton presenting the volume to his aunt. It was in 
the pristine English calf binding, as clean as when it left 
Walton's hands en route to his kinswoman, and such 
a delightful signature. What has become of it? It 
is sad even to commit to paper the story — one among 
many. An American gentleman acquired it, tore the 
portrait and leaf of inscription out, and threw the rest 
away". 

I believe him — to use the language of a mighty hunt- 
er — to be a meticulous prevaricator. If the tale be 
true, and I should like to have Mr. William Carew 
Hazlitt under cross-examination for a while, it only 
shows that there may be a few vandals in the tribe 
of autograph collectors, but no true collector would 
ever be guilty of such a wanton crime. Bagford tore 
out title-pages, but that affords no> evidence that book- 
lovers are habitually given to the folly of tearing out 
title pages. As for the case being "one of many", I 
deny it ; if he had known of another instance he would 
have gloried in the description of it. But he never 
knew law, logic or truth, and upon his indictment for 



*See a review in The Literary Collector, September, 
1905. 



64 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

silliness it would be necessary only to offer in evidence 
his books, — and rest. 

But why should I get so very cross about poor old 
Hazlitt? The wisest thing I can do is to recite to him 
the touching verses of "You are old, Father William" 
and remonstrate gently with him in regard to his per- 
nicious habit of incessantly standing upon his head. It 
will be a good plan to return to' the favorite corner and 
soothe my ruffled spirits by reading Percy Greg's com- 
ical "History of the United States", or better still, the 
dear little story which Roswell Field wrote about "The 
Bondage of Ballinger". 

Whether so famous a poem as Young's Night 
Thoughts is entitled to the privileges of the pit of 
Acheron, may be matter for dispute; but as Goldsmith 
said of those gloomy lucubrations, a reader speaks of 
them with exaggerated applause or contempt as his dis- 
position "is either turned to mirth or melancholy". We 
have preserved "tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy 
sleep", and "procrastination is the thief of time," but 
we know that the didactic parson's famous poem is 
"hardly ever read now except under compulsion." My 
chief grievance against the man who was compelled to 

"Torture his invention 
To flatter knaves or lose his pension," 

is not, however, founded upon his lugubrious penta- 
meters. 

The man who turns down the corner of the leaf of a 
book is not only fit for treason, stratagems and spoils, 
but is well qualified to commit any mean crime in the 
calendar. If his memory is so poor that he cannot re- 



IN A LIBRARY CORNER 65 

member page or passage, let him make a small pencil 
note on the margin. Such a note may readily be re- 
moved by an eraser, but a "dog's ear" can never be 
wholly removed. Its blight continues during the life 
of the book. Now Boswell records this sickening fact : 
"I have seen volumes of Dr. Young's copy of The 
Rambler, in which he has marked the passages which 
he thought particularly excellent, by folding down a 
corner of the page, and such as he rated in a super- 
eminent degree are marked by double folds. I am sorry 
that some of the volumes are lost." I do not share in 
this sorrow; it is well that the testimony of such bru- 
tality should be effaced. Double folds! Insatiate 
archer, would not one suffice? Perhaps Johnson him- 
self, Virginius-like, destroyed his offspring thus shame- 
lessly violated. 

It is often difficult to get out of corners ; but before 
I escape, let me give to the dog's earing, nocturnally 
reflecting Young, full credit for a single utterance — 
"Joy flies monopolists," — which proves that it was not 
wholly in vain that he burned the midnight oil; for 
although he speaks in the present tense, it is manifest 
that the spirit of prophecy was strong within him. He 
looked ahead for more than a century and foresaw the 
day when "grafters" might be glorified and exalted, 
debauchees acclaimed us apostles of the people, and 
murderers feasted and honored, but monopolists hated, 
shunned and abhorred as miscreants whose sins can 
never be forgiven. Joyless indeed are those who dare 
to deprive their fellow beings of the inborn right to 
equality in everything; for we hold these truths to be 
self-evident, that all men are created free and equal, — 
that is to say, with the right to> do just as they please, 
to till the soil, to mine the earth, to invent the telegraph 



66 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

and the telephone, to manufacture steel, and to con- 
struct railways, but not to do it so well as to prevent any 
of the great people from doing the same thing. The 
abandoned wretch who, by his despicable brains, his 
virtuous life, and his pernicious industry seeks to impair 
those rights in any degree, however trifling, must be 
prepared to bid farewell to happiness and contentment. 
If he is able to avoid the jail, it will be well for him to 
seek refuge in some secluded spot; let us say, in a peace- 
ful library corner. 



OF THE OLD FASHION 

SPEAKING appreciatively a few nights ago at 
the club, concerning a recent magazine article 
on "Prescott, the Man," I was reminded by a 
youthful university graduate of only twenty- 
five years standing, that "Prescott is an old- 
fashioned historian." 

There is much that is amusing in the attitude of the 
self-sufficient present towards the things of the past 
and there is also an element of the pathetic. I am often 
called an "old fogy," an epithet whose origin and 
derivation are uncertain, but whose meaning is reason- 
ably plain. Nobody who ever had the name applied to 
him was oppressed by any doubt about its signification. 
Some authorities tell us that it comes from the Swedish 
fogde — one who has charge of a garrison, — but I ques- 
tion it despite the confident assertion of the Century 
Dictionary . It is not altogether inappropriate, because 
old fogies are compelled to hold the fort against all 
manner of abominations. They are the brakes on the 
electric cars of modern pseudo-progress. Thackeray 
speaks of "old Livermore, old Soy, old Chutney the 
East India director, old Cutler the surgeon, — that so- 
ciety of old fogies, in fine, who give each other dinners 
sound and round and dine for the mere purpose of gut- 
tling." So the term is always associated with the stupid 
and the ridiculous, used with regard to "elderly per- 
sons who have no sympathy with the amusements and 
pursuits of the young." Nobody ever refers to a young 

67 



68 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

fogy, although most of us know many exceedingly dull- 
witted young people who have no sympathy with the 
amusements and pursuits of the aged or even of the 
middle-aged. One class is no more worthy of con- 
tempt than the other. The adolescents who find their 
highest form of entertainment in "bridge" are at least 
as deserving of pity as the semi-centenarian who pre- 
fers to pass his evenings among his books and his pic- 
tures or to devote them to Shakespeare and the musical 
glasses. There are some delights about the library fire- 
side which compare favorably with those of the corri- 
dors of our most popular hostelry. 

Certain kindly critics have insisted that my own lit- 
erary tastes were acquired in the year 1850. I am not 
sure that the despised tastes formed in those common- 
place, mid-century days are to be esteemed more highly 
than the tastes of our own self-satisfied times, but a 
good deal may be said in their favor. Perhaps the past 
is not always inferior to the present. There are varying 
opinions on the subject, from the familiar saying of Al- 
fonso of Aragon, quoted by Melchior, immortalized by 
Bacon, and paraphrased by Goldsmith — that saying 
about old wood, old wine, old friends, and old authors 
— to the dogmatic declaration of Whittier that "still the 
new transcends the old." It may occur to antiquated 
minds that there are some elements of excellence about 
old plays compared with the dramatic works of this 
careless, insouciant time; that Wordsworth has some 
merits which are superior to those of the worthy gen- 
tleman who now fills the office of Laureate, and that 
possibly the poety of the last few years is not entitled 
to boast itself greatly beside that of the early nineteenth 
century — the poetry of Scott, of Byron, of Shelley and 
of Keats. But we have the telephone and the trolley-car, 



OF THE OLD FASHION 69 

the automobile, the aeroplane, and the operation for ap- 
pendicitis; and we admire our progress, the wonderful 
growth of the material, the mechanical, and the million- 
airy, while a few may pause to ask whether good taste 
and good manners have grown as greatly. Some of our 
older buildings for example are assuredly far better 
to look at than the lofty structures of steel which tower 
in lower New York and make of our streets darksome 
canons where the light of day scarcely penetrates and 
where the winds of winter roar wildly about our devoted 
heads as we struggle, hat-clutching, to our office door- 
ways. May we not cite the City Hall and the Assay 
Office as honorable specimens of dignified architecture ? 
There was something impressive too about the old 
"Tombs," — replaced not long ago 1 by a monstrosity — 
a structure which a lady recently told me was once re- 
ferred to by an English friend who had never been in 
New York, as "the Westminster Abbey of America." 

It is delightful to be young and to indulge in the 
illusions of youth — a truism which it is safe to utter, 
for nobody will dispute it. "Youth is a blunder, man- 
hood a struggle, old age a regret," said the strange, 
semi-oriental personage, an enigma in politics and a 
problem in literature, Benjamin Disraeli. Everybody 
knows the rude saying of old George Chapman, which 
it is almost an impertinence to quote, but every one does 
not remember whence it came — that young men think 
the old men are fools but old men know young men are 
fools. It is certain that we have cherished that idea in 
our minds for many centuries. Pope, in his epigram- 
matic way, remarked that "in youth and beauty wisdom 
is but rare," but we cannot give him credit for original- 
ity in the utterance. We will go on with our regrets, 
our reproofs and our hesitancies, and in the course of 



70 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

time those who sneer at us now as cumbersome relics, 
laudatores temporis acti, mere maunderers enamored 
of an effete past, will take their turn, fill our places, 
and endure the pitying and condescending smiles of the 
succeeding generation. There is nothing new under the 
sun and the man of to-day may well pause in his arro- 
gant career to remember that he will quickly pass into 
the category of the obsolete. 

Some of us who are beginning to descend that down- 
ward slope of life which soon becomes sadly precipitous, 
but whoi retain a vivid recollection of the long-ago, are 
fond of recalling a period of New York which in this 
era of lavish expenditures, indiscriminating profuseness, 
and careless prodigality seems strangely simple. Those 
were the days when in sedate Second Avenue and Stuy- 
vesant Square were the homes of dignified wealth, 
whose owners rather looked down upon Fifth Avenue 
as parvenu; and Forty-second Street was almost an 
outpost of civilization. We revelled in the delights of 
the ancient Philharmonic concerts and believed that Carl 
Bergmann was the last evolution of a conductor; later 
we recognized Theodore Thomas as the man who did 
more to develop a taste for good orchestral music in 
this country than any other one man who ever lived. 
We thronged the stalls of old Wallack's, with its most 
excellent of stock-companies — something which has 
wholly disappeared — and we rejoiced in Dion Bou- 
cicault and Agnes Robertson. A little later we haunted 
the upper gallery of the Academy of Music in Four- 
teenth Street — at least / did, because of a confirmed 
stringency in the money market, — and cheered 
the magical top-notes of the ponderous but melodious 
Wachtel and the generous tones of that most inspiring 
of singers, the splendid Parepa-Rosa. We hailed with 



OF THE OLD FASHION 71 

loud acclaims the manly and dignified Santley, — more 
in his element in oratorio than in opera — and the royal 
contralto, Adelaide Phillips, long since forgotten except 
by the Old Guard who afterwards transferred their 
allegiance to Annie Louise Cary. It may have been a 
provincial time, but we did not think so ; it was a good 
time and we enjoyed it. 

It seems but yesterday when all over the land flashed 
the news of Lincoln's death, and the black draperies 
suddenly shrouded the streets while the triumphant note 
of Easter Sunday died away in a cry of lamentation. I 
was in old St. Bartholomew's in Lafayette Place that 
Sunday, and the recollection of it will never be lost. Nor 
shall I forget the grief and alarm of a small band of 
Southerners, secessionists of the strongest type, domi- 
ciled in the same house with me, as they lamented that 
in the death of Abraham Lincoln, the South had been 
deprived of its best friend, the man who would have 
made reconstruction a blessing instead of an affliction. 
They had been rebels, it is true, but they were con- 
scious of the loftiness of the soul of that noble citizen 
who, with faults which are often the accompaniments 
of greatness, stood for all that was just and magnani- 
mous in our national life. 

Some of us have a clear recollection of the camping 
of soldiers in City Hall Park, the cheering of the mul- 
titude as the regiments of volunteers swung down Broad- 
way on their march to Virginia, when we were striving 
to preserve the republic and the horror of civil war was 
present with us every hour. We were less cynical, less 
ambitious, less strenuous in those days, and I think we 
were more serene and sincere. We had serious imper- 
fections, but we did not carry ourselves quite as mightily, 
and on the whole we had some creditable characteristics. 



72 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

There is no good reason why we should be ashamed of 
ourselves. 

Were we so very stupid in the fifties? Was there 
not some true and honorable life in our social and liter- 
ary world of that generation? Surely our newspapers 
were as worthy of respect as some of our contemporary 
journals with their blazing capitals, their columns of 
crime, their pages of the sensational, and their pro- 
voking condensed head-lines which exasperate me by 
their airy flippancy. I sometimes wonder that nobody 
except myself utters a protest against those dreadful 
headlines. They reduce almost everything to vulgarity, 
and the affection of condensation is distinctly irritating. 
Most objectionable of all are the headlines followed by 
interrogation points, because they are misleading. If, 
for example, they say in capitals "Mr. Smith strikes 
his mother?" the average reader — and there is more 
of that sort than of any other — glancing over the pages 
misses the query and goes to his grave with the firm 
conviction that poor Smith was the most unmanly of 
brutes. I am not sure that the interrogation mark pro- 
tects the proprietors against a libel suit. 

It is true that in the fifties our art may have been of 
the tame and tidy sort, timorously clinging to the con- 
ventional; our financial enterprises were conducted on 
so small a scale that a million was a sum which made 
the banker's heart palpitate with apprehensive emo- 
tion ; our politics were concerned chiefly with the col- 
ored man and his relations to the State; in architecture 
our awful brown stone fronts were oppressing in a dom- 
ineering way all the town in and above Fourteenth 
Street. But there was a certain dignity about it all, an 
absence of tawdriness, a savor of respectability. 

Fourteenth Street! It must be difficult for the New 



OF THE OLD FASHION 73 

Yorkers of to-day who have not passed the half-cen- 
tury mark to realize that only fifty years ago itwas really 
"up-town." It is easier to imagine the present Thomas 
Street as it was in 18 15, a spot to be reached only after 
a bucolic journey through country lanes which my grand- 
father used to traverse on his way to the New York 
Hospital where he studied medicine. We think of that 
condition of things in about the same state of mind as 
that in which we contemplate the Roman Forum or the 
stony avenues of Pompeii. It amuses me to recall the 
period of the fifties and early sixties when the Hudson 
River Railroad had its terminus in Thirtieth Street near 
Tenth Avenue, but sent its cars, horse-drawn, to Cham- 
bers Streets and College Place just opposite old Ridley's, 
whose pictures were on those familiar inverted cones of 
never-to-be-forgotten candies, the virtues whereof have 
been proclaimed sonorously on railway trains from time 
immemorial, and that Chambers Street station will al- 
ways live in the memory of old-fashioned people who 
used to "go to town" from rural neighborhoods. My 
aforesaid grandfather took me often, much to my joy, 
to visit his son in West Nineteenth Street, and the con- 
servative old gentleman, who served as a surgeon under 
Commodore Charles Stewart on the good ship "Frank- 
lin," always went to Chambers Street and thence by 
the Sixth Avenue horse-railway to Nineteenth Street. 
which caused the pilgrimage to be unduly protracted, 
but we always reached our destination sooner or later — 
generally later. I remember that an idiotic notion pos- 
sessed me that we were confined to traveling on West 
Broadway because country people were not allowed to 
encumber the real, the glorious Broadway, of whose 
omnibus-crowded splendors I caught but furtive 
glimpses by peering up the cross-streets. Another gen- 



74 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

tleman of the old school, whom I loved sincerely, in- 
variably proceeded from Thirtieth Street — and after 
the genesis of the Grand Central Station, from Forty- 
second Street — to the Astor House, from which vener- 
able house of cheer he wended his way serenely to 
Union Square, or to Madison Square, or to any quar- 
ter where his business or his pleasure led him, how- 
ever remote it might be from City Hall Park. To him 
the Astor House was practically the hub of the metrop- 
olis. These details may seem to be trivial, but they are 
characteristic of the old-fashioned men of half a cen- 
tury ago who still clung to the swallow-tailed coat as a 
garment to be worn by daylight. It never occurred to 
them to "take a cab," possibly because there was no cab 
which a decent person would willingly occupy unless it 
had been ordered in advance from a livery stable. There 
are many reasons why this land of freedom — modified 
freedom — is preferable to any other land; but when 
we come to cabs, we must, in all fairness, admit the 
superiority of the London hansom over a New York 
"growler," the hansoms now vanishing, we learn, be- 
fore the all-conquering horde of motor-cars. 

The old-fashioned magazines — how few ever turn 
their pages now, and yet how much in them is of inter- 
est, even to a casual reader. Far be it from me to whis- 
per the slightest word of disparagement about our gor- 
geous and innumerable "monthlies," with their pomp 
and pride of illustration, extending from text to the 
copious advertisements, those soul-stirring and lucra- 
tive adjuncts to a magazine of the present. Do not tell 
me that a man who buys the thick, paper-covered book 
does not read the advertisements; he pretends that he 
does not, but he does. According to my experience he 
follows them from soap to steam-yachts, from refriger- 



OF THE OLD FASHION 75 

ators to railway routes, but he would rather die than 
confess it. Much as I admire these products of our 
later civilization, I nevertheless maintain that there is 
more charm in an ancient number of any worthy peri- 
odical than is to be found in the latest issue. Time seems 
to add a mellow flavor to the good things of the past. 
There is not much to say in praise of the solemn Whig 
Review or of O'Sullivan's portentous Democratic Re- 
view, but take from the shelf a shabbily bound volume 
of Graham's Magazine of Literature and Art, pub- 
lished in the forties, and there will be discovered a wil- 
derness of delights. The fashion-plates alone are 
dreams of comical beauty, and the steel plates of "The 
Shepherd's Love," "The Proffered Kiss," and "Lace 
Pattern with Embossed View" far surpass — in a sense 
— the boasted work of Pyle and of Abbey. What soul 
will decline to be thrilled at the lovely skit entitled 
"Born to Love Pigs and Chickens" by that butterfly 
of literature, Nathaniel Parker Willis, which you will 
find in the number of February, 1843. Consider the 
portrait of Charles Fenno Hoffman, with his exquisite 
coatlet, his wonderful legs attired in what appear to be 
tights, and his mild but intellectual countenance beam- 
ing upon us as he sits, bare-headed, upon a convenient 
stage rock, holding in one hand an object which may be 
a pie, a boxing-glove or a hat, according to the imagi- 
nation of the beholder. Contemplate the list of contrib- 
utors, including Bryant, Cooper, Longfellow, Lowell, 
and "Edgar A. Poe, Esq.," the "Esq." adding a de- 
licious dignity to each of the illustrious names. It 
was only "sixty years since," but can any magazine of 
to-day rival that catalogue? Almost every one knows 
that Poe was editor of Graham for a year and that The 
Murders in the Rue Morgue as well as Longfellow's 



76 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Spanish Student first appeared in that magazine. Com- 
ing to a later day, recall the Harper of the fifties. No 
pleasure of the present can equal that which we felt 
when we revelled in Abbott's Napoleon which turned 
us lads into enthusiastic admirers of the great Emper- 
or; or when we enjoyed the jovial Porte Crayon whose 
drawing was consistently as bad as Thackeray's, but 
whose fascinating humor had a quality peculiarly its 
own. Not long ago Mr. Janvier, to the gratification of 
the surviving members of the brotherhood of early 
Harper readers, gave to Strother the tribute of his ju- 
dicious praise. 

One may not gossip lightly about the Atlantic, but 
the Knickerbocker is distinctly old-fashioned. Longfel- 
low's Psalm of Life first saw the light in its pages ; im- 
mortal, even if Barrett Wendell does truthfully say 
that it is full not only of outworn metaphor but of su- 
perficial literary allusion. Old New York, adds Pro- 
fessor Wendell, expressed itself in our first school of 
renascent writing, which withered away with the Knick- 
erbocker Magazine. But there was a Knickerbocker 
school, and the brothers Willis and Gaylord Clark 
helped to sustain its glories. The magazine began in 
1832, faded in 1857 and died in 1864; and out of it 
sprang many of the authors whose names are inseparably 
associated with a golden period of our literature. 

It was only a short time ago that one of the men of 
those by-gone times departed this life, and the scanty 
mention of him in the public press compelled a sad 
recognition of the familiar truth that in order to retain 
popular attraction one must pose perpetually under the 
lime-light. Parke Godwin, who belonged to the order 
of scholarly, high-minded Americans, had outlived his 
fame, except among the Centurions of West Forty-third 



OF THE OLD FASHION 77 

Street and a few old people of the same class. Perhaps 
he did not concentrate his powers sufficiently. Editor, 
writer of political essays, author of Vala, a Mytholog- 
ical Tale, biographer of his father-in-law, William Cul- 
len Bryant, and by virtue of his History of France, 
historian, — but he published only one volume more than 
forty years ago and then abandoned the task — he had 
that broad culture which sometimes disperses itself and 
fails to win for its possessor the highest place in the lit- 
erary hierarchy. He was a delightful example of what 
we now regard as the old-fashioned and his address on 
the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the Century 
Club is a mine of good things for one who is interested 
in the past of New York. "I have stood once more" 
said he "beside the easel of Cole as he poured his ideal 
visions of the Voyage of Life and the Course of Em- 
pire in gorgeous colors upon the canvas. I have seen 
the boyish Kensett trying to infuse his own refinement 
and sweetness into the wild woods of the wold. I 
have watched the stately Gifford as he brought the City 
of the Sea out of its waters, in a style that Cavaletto 
and Ziem would envy and with a brilliancy of color that 
outshone even its native Italian skies. I have stood be- 
side the burly Leutze as he portrayed our Washington 
among the ice of the Delaware, or depicted the multi- 
tudinous tramp of immigrants making their western 
way through the wilderness to the shores of the Oregon, 
that 'hears no sound save its own dashings.' All have 
come back for a moment, but they are gone, oh whither? 
Into the silent land, says Von Salis ; yet how silent it is ! 
We speak to them but they answer us not again." He 
brought back to us the beginning of things, when he told 
us of the incipient conditions of the Academy of De- 
sign. "They took a room — was it suggestive? — in the 



78 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

old Alms House in the Park, and they worked under a 
wick dipped in whale-oil which gave out more smoke 
than light." He spoke of Halleck, of Gulian Ver- 
planck, of Bryant, of Charles Fenno Hoffman, of Rob- 
ert C. Sands, and of old Tristam Burges, "who had 
swallowed Lempriere's Classical Dictionary;" and he 
closed with a brief flight of eloquence such as in these 
days of new-fashioned chilliness it is seldom vouchsafed 
to us to hear. 

Of the same order was William Allen Butler, the 
friend of Halleck and of Duyckinck, of Andrew Jack- 
son and of Martin Van Buren who knew Samuel Rog- 
ers and visited him in London. He was nine years the 
junior of Godwin. He might have won the highest 
eminence in the world of books if he had not made the 
law his chief occupation and literature only his recrea- 
tion. The bar does not among its rewards number that 
of enduring fame, unless occasionally some great polit- 
ical or criminal trial perpetuates the name of the advo- 
cate chiefly concerned in it. Of course, Mr. Butler's 
early essay in verse, "Nothing to Wear," will never be 
entirely forgotten. A humorous skit as it was, its en- 
during merit is shown by the fact that in spite of the 
old-fashioned terms descriptive of woman's dress and 
of the fashionable life of fifty years ago, in its general 
tone it is curiously contemporaneous. Scarcely less 
witty and amusing were his poems, "General Average" 
and "The Sexton and the Thermometer," the former 
being more highly esteemed by many than its popular 
predecessor. I suppose that he left it out of the later 
collection of his poems because, with his gentle and 
kindly nature, he feared that a few of its passages might 
give offense to some of his friends of the Jewish faith 
whom he esteemed and respected. His translations of 



OF THE OLD FASHION 79 

Uhland are marked by graceful and poetic fervor, and 
his prose style was lucidity itself. His humor, always 
attractive and appropriate, lightened even his most seri- 
ous work, from an address on Statutory Law to an argu- 
ment in the Supreme Court in Washington City. It 
was well said of him by a jurist now living, that "no 
man of his time, either in England or America, held an 
equally high rank both as a lawyer and a literary man." 
Another of the old-fashioned literary men, who was 
however considerably the senior of both Godwin and 
Butler, was George Perkins Morris, who died in 1864. 
He was at once a general of militia, an editor, a favor- 
ite song-writer, and the composer of an opera libretto. 
His title to> immortality rests mainly upon the senti- 
mental verses known as "Woodman, Spare that Tree," 
which had a flavor about them very dear to our grand- 
parents. To look at his manly countenance in 
the portrait engraved by Hollyer (who at the 
present writing is still extant and vigorous) after 
the Elliott painting, we can scarcely imagine him as the 
author of such lines as "Near the Lake Where Drooped 
the Willow," "We Were Boys Together," "Land-Ho," 
"Long Time Ago" and "Whip-poor-will." But James 
Grant Wilson says that for above a score of years he 
could, any day, exchange one of his songs unread for a 
fifty dollar cheque, when some of literati of New York 
(possibly Pbe) could not sell anything for the one-fifth 
part of that sum. In the presence of Morris, I confess 
I cannot quite give myself up to adoring admiration of 
the taste of our predecessors. This stanza indicates his 
ordinary quality: 

The star of love now shines above, 

Cool zephyrs crisp the sea ; 
Among the leaves, the wind-harp weaves 

Its serenade for thee. 



8o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Notwithstanding this rather trifling vein, admirably 
satirized by Orpheus C. Kerr, and a certain tone of 
commonplace, Morris had a genuine lyrical quality in 
his verse although it was devoid of startling bursts of 
inspiration, and English literature affords many ex- 
amples of less deserving poesy. Morris was an indus- 
trious editor, appreciative of others, and he had a per- 
sonal charm which endeared him to those who had the 
good fortune to come within the pale of his friendship, 
and particularly to those who were permitted to enjoy 
the generous hospitality of his sweet and dignified home 
at Undercliff opposite West Point. Smile as we may at 
his little conceits and his obvious rhymes, we must recog- 
nize the sincere and genial nature of the kindly General, 
so long conspicuous in the social and literary life of old 
New York. 

These men, it may be said, do not prove the per- 
manent value of the literature of the fifties. Godwin 
and Morris were editors and Butler a busy lawyer, none 
of them able to give their undivided attention to author- 
ship. I suppose that Irving and Emerson, Bryant, 
Longfellow, Hawthorne and Bayard Taylor were more 
distinctly the ornaments of the time, and there are 
other names which more judicious and discriminating 
men might substitute for some of those I have chosen. 
Bayard Taylor's greatest work was done in later years, 
but he had already won his first fame — not a giant, but 
a poet with "the spontaneity of a born singer," as Sted- 
man said. Irving, the most charming and amiable of 
writers, had not the most forceful intellect, but he was 
calm and graceful, with a gentle and bewitching hu- 
mor and a strong appreciation of the beautiful — a good 
man, beloved and honored at home and abroad. His 
fame is paler now than it was forty years gone by, but 



OF THE OLD FASHION 81 

he has the immortality of a classic. Emerson had a 
powerful influence over the minds of men, but viewed 
in the perspective of time, he does not loom so largely 
now. I am not competent to venture far into the terri- 
tory of criticism, having only the equipment of a gen- 
eral reader who timidly expresses his personal feelings 
and leaves to trained and experienced judges the task of 
scientific analysis; but we general readers are the jury, 
after all. 

As time slips by there is a tendency to merge the 
decades of the past, and to the young people of 1909 
the period of 1 850-1 860 is every bit as remote as the 
period of 1 830-1 840. The university undergraduate 
does not differentiate between the alumnus of 1870 and 
him of 1855, as I know by experience. A melancholy 
illustration of this well-known fact was afforded of late 
in a popular play, the scene of which was laid in a time 
supposed to be exceedingly far distant, and the pro- 
gramme announced it as "the early eighties." The 
representation was enlivened by such antiquated melo- 
dies as "Old Zip Coon," "Maryland, My Maryland," 
and "Old Dan Tucker," as well as "Pretty as a Pic- 
ture," "Ye Merry Birds," and "How Fair Art Thou," 
all as appropriate to the early eighties as Dr. Arne's 
"Where the Bee Sucks" and "Rule Britannia." It was 
almost as abominably anachronistic as the naive declara- 
tion of a pseudo-Princetonian who asserted a member- 
ship in the Class of 1879 and assured me that he had 
been, while in college, a devoted disciple of Doctor 
Eliphalet Nott. If I have mingled my old-fashioned 
decades unduly, it has been because of that tendency to 
merger which no Sherman Act can suppress. 

Few there are who cling with affection to the memory 
of the old-fashioned. Most of us prefer to spin with the 



82 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

world down the ringing grooves of change, to borrow 
the shadow of a phrase which has itself become old- 
fashioned. The flaming sword of the Civil War severed 
the latest century of America in two unequal parts, and 
its fiery blade divided the old and the new as surely 
and as cleanly as the guillotine cleft apart the France 
of the old monarchy from the France of modern days. 
To stray back in recollection to the land of fifty years 
ago is almost like treading the streets of some mediaeval 
town. But for some of us there is a melancholy pleasure 
in the retrospect and a lingering fondness for the life 
which we thought so earnest and so vigorous then, but 
which now seems so placid and so drowsy. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 

REVIEWERS, critics and students of litera- 
ture are inclined to resent the assertion 
with respect to a writer once eminent, that 
he is substantially forgotten. But it is safe 
to say that if we regard the millions of 
readers in this country whose literary nutriment is made 
up chiefly of works of fiction or of biography of the 
lighter sort, as "the reading public of America", the 
name of William Harrison Ainsworth is by no means 
familiar in the United States. There are many book- 
owners who keep his "Works" upon their shelves, and 
know the backs of the volumes, and some of the omniv- 
erous have doubtless read "Jack Sheppard", "Crich- 
ton", "The Tower of London", and perhaps "Rook- 
wood" ; yet thousands who are well acquainted with 
their Scott, their Dickens and their Thackeray would be 
sorely puzzled if they were asked to tell us who Ains- 
worth was, and exactly when he lived, or to give a syn- 
opsis of the plot of a single one of his numerous stories; 
and he has been dead not quite thirty years. 

Allibone gives him but fourteen lines of biography, 
mostly bitter censure, with a few words of qualified 
praise for such historical tales as "St. Paul's" and "The 
Tower". The indifference to him is not limited to 
general readers or to America. Chamber's Encyclo- 
paedia of English Literature begrudges him twenty- 
nine lines of depreciative comment, conceding to him 
dramatic art and power, but denying to him "originality 

83 



84 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

or felicity of humor or character". He is not even men- 
tioned in Mr. Edmund Gosse's Modern English Litera- 
ture, and Taine does not condescend to give his name. 
In the History of Nicoll and Seccombe no reference to 
him can be found. In the pretentious volumes of the 
History of English Literature edited by Garnett and 
Gosse a portrait of him is given with a rough draft of a 
Cruikshank drawing; and this is what is said of him: 
"A very popular exponent of the grotesque and the 
sensational in historical romance was William Harrison 
Ainsworth (1805-1882), a Manchester solicitor, who 
wrote Rookwood, 1834, Jack Sheppard, 1839, and The 
Tower of London, 1840. He was a sort of Cruikshank 
of the pen, delighting in violent and lurid scenes, 
crowded with animated figures". This is rather an 
absurd mess of misinformation. One would scarcely 
believe that there was a time when he was esteemed to 
be a worthy rival of Charles Dickens, and when in the 
eyes of the critics and of the public he far outshone 
Edward Lytton Buiwer. 

In a note to the sketch in the Dictionary of National 
Biography, Mr. W. E. A. Axon says that "no biog- 
raphy of Ainsworth has appeared or is likely to be pub- 
lished." The fact is correctly stated, but the prediction 
may not be fulfilled. In 1902, Mr. Axon himself 
expanded the Dictionary article and made it into an 
excellent memoir of forty-three pages, but only a few 
copies were printed. It contains five portraits. A 
devoted admirer of Ainsworth has been for some years 
engaged in the preparation of an extended biography. 
I do not give his name, for he probably prefers to make 
the announcement at his own time and in his own way. 
A few years ago I became the possessor of a consider- 
able number of autographic relics of Ainsworth, includ- 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 85 

ing a memorandum book and a manuscript volume con- 
taining an account of his travels in Italy in 1830, dedi- 
cated to his wife, with a poem ; some letters to him from 
Cruikshank; thirty-six pages of the draft of "Jack Shep- 
pard", and more than two hundred of his own letters. 
It is gratifying to know that my friend who is at work 
on the "Life" has been aided by this little collection. 

The only published records of Ainsworth's life, other 
than those to which I have referred, are, as far as I 
have been able to discover, a brief memoir by Laman 
Blanchard which appeared in the Mirror in 1842 and 
was reproduced in later editions of "Rookwood"; a 
chapter in Madden's Life of Lady Blessington; a sketch 
by James Crossley contributed to the Routledge edition 
of the Ballads in 1855; and an account of him by 
William Bates, accompanying a semi-caricature portrait 
in the Maclise Portrait Gallery. 

Ainsworth was born in his father's house on King 
Street, Manchester, February 4, 1805. His family was 
"respectable" in the English sense, for his grandfather 
on his mother's side was a Unitarian minister, and his 
father a prosperous solicitor. It was from the mother 
that he inherited in 1842 some "landed property" to 
use another distinctively English phrase, and it is amus- 
ing to observe the pride of Madden when he boasts 
that Ainsworth's name appears in Burke's Landed 
Gentry. He attended the Free Grammar School in 
Manchester, where it is said that he was proficient in 
Latin and Greek, and as he was expected to succeed to 
his father's practice, he became an articled clerk in the 
office of Mr. Alexander Kay, at the age of sixteen. He 
was a handsome boy, full of ambition, but his ambition 
did not lead him in the dull and dusty paths which so- 
licitors tread. He had already written a drama, for 



86 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

private production, which was printed in Arliss's Mag- 
azine, and a number of sketches, translations and minor 
papers for a serial called The Manchester Iris, and he 
subsequently conducted a periodical styled The Boeo- 
tian, which had a short existence of six months. Before 
he was nineteen, he was a regular contributor to the 
London Magazine and the Edinburgh Magazine. Some 
of these youthful efforts were collected in "December 
Tales" ( 1823) , which also contained sketches by James 
Crossley and John Partington Aston. In 1822 he issued 
a pamphlet of "Poems, by Cheviot Tichborn", which as 
Mr. Axon informs us, is quite distinct from another 
pamphlet called "The Works of Cheviot Tichburn", 
printed in 1825, apparently for private circulation. 

The Tichborn book of verses was dedicated to 
Charles Lamb. The author was a devoted admirer of 
Elia, and as early as 1822 Lamb had lent him a copy of 
Cyril Tourneur's play or plays. On May 7, 1822, 
Lamb wrote to him a letter, (printed in The Lambs, 
by William Carew Hazlitt, 1897) referring to the 
book and saying, among other things, "I have read 
your poetry with pleasure. The tales are pretty and 
prettily told. It is only sometimes a little careless, I 
mean as to redundancy." The letter mentions the pro- 
posed dedication deprecatingly and modestly. 

Talfourd, Canon Ainger and Fitzgerald in their col- 
lections give two other letters, written respectively on 
December 9 and December 29, 1823, one thanking 
Ainsworth for "books and compliments," and the other 
giving Lamb-like excuses for not leaving beloved Lon- 
don to pay a visit to Manchester.* It was something 
of an honor for a lad of seventeen to receive the praise 



*See Temple Bar Edition, iii, 51-52. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 87 

of Charles Lamb, who appears to have discovered one 
of his young correspondent's besetting sins — redund- 
ancy. But it may not have meant much, for in those 
days they exchanged compliments more profusely than 
is customary at the present time. 

All these excursions in the field of authorship were 
fatal to the grave study of the law, for which he had 
no taste, and although when his father died in 1824 he 
went to London to finish his term with Mr. Jacob Phil- 
lips of the Inner Temple, it was a foregone conclusion 
that, whatever his career might be, it would not be that 
of a solicitor. About 1826, one John Ebers, a publisher 
in Bond Street, and also manager of the Opera House, 
brought out a novel called "Sir John Chiverton," which 
received the favor of Sir Walter Scott, who said of it in 
his diary (October 17, 1826), that he had read it with 
interest, and that it was "a clever book," at the same 
time asserting that he himself was the originator of the 
style in which it was written. For many years it was 
supposed that Ainsworth was its sole author, but it was 
claimed in 1877 by Mr. John Partington Aston, a law- 
yer, who had been a fellow-clerk of Ainsworth's in Mr. 
Kay's office, and the book was probably the result of 
collaboration. The dedicatory verses are supposed to 
have been addressed to Anne Frances Ebers, John 
Ebers' daughter, whom Ainsworth married on Octo- 
ber 11, 1826. Soon afterwards he seems to have been 
occupied in editing one of those absurd "Annuals" so 
common in those days, for we find Tom Moore record- 
ing in his journal in 1827, that he had been asked to 
edit the Forget-Me-Not to begin with the second num- 
ber, "as the present editor is Mr. Ainsworth (I think), 
the son-in-law of Ebers." The compensation offered to 
Moore was £500, which indicates that such work was 



88 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

paid for liberally, but it is not likely that Ainsworth re- 
ceived as much. A year or so after the marriage — 
within a year in fact — he followed his father-in-law's 
advice and became himself a publisher and a book-seller; 
but at the end of eighteen months he decided to abandon 
the business. 

If we may judge by one of the letters in my collec- 
tion, it is not surprising that he was not overwhelmingly 
successful. He writes to Thomas Hill for a notice in 
the Chronicle of a book the copyright of which he had 
recently purchased, adding, "the work is really a most 
scientific one — indeed the only distinct treatise on Con- 
fectionery extant." Perhaps this was the work of Ude, 
the cook, whose publisher he was; but he also "brought 
out" Caroline Norton as an author, of whom he writes 
to Charles Oilier, in his graceful, rather lady-like 
chirography : 

"Is it not possible [to] get me a short notice of the 
enclosed into the new Monthly? By so doing you will 
infinitely oblige one of the most beautiful women in the 
world — the Hon. Mrs. Norton, the granddaughter of 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan." 

In 1827 he published for Thomas Hood two volumes 
of "National Tales," which are said to be the poorest 
books written by Hood. Christopher North said of 
them: "I am glad to see that they are published by 
Mr. Ainsworth to whom I wish all success in his new 
profession. He is himself a young gentleman of tal- 
ents, and his Sir John Chiverton is a spirited and ro- 
mantic performance."* 

It was for an annual issued by him that Sir Walter 
Scott wrote the "Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee," and the 



*Blackwood, April, 1827. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 89 

story is told by Mr. Axon that Sir Walter received 
twenty guineas for it, but laughingly handed them over 
to the little daughter of Lockhart, at whose house he 
and Ainsworth met. He wrote some fragmentary and 
miscellaneous prose and verse, not of much importance ; 
and in 1828 he travelled through Belgium and up the 
Rhine, going to Switzerland and Italy in 1830. The 
manuscript note-books which lie before me, the paper 
foxed and the ink faded, comprise a diary of the Italian 
part of the journey. I have toiled over the one hun- 
dred and sixty-eight pages, not always easily decipher- 
able, but have found little which exceeds in value the 
ordinary guide-book of our own time. It was, we must 
remember, written only for his wife — whom he consid- 
erately left at home — and the dedicatory poem to her, 
consisting of fifty-eight unrhymed lines, written in 
Venice in September, 1830, is quite as commonplace as 
might be expected from a man of twenty-five, with little 
poetic inspiration but endowed with much verbal flu- 
ency, who was not writing for publication. 

Soon after his return from the Continent, Ainsworth 
began the work from which he was to derive his chief 
title to fame — the composing of novels. It has been 
said that he was inspired by Mrs. Radcliffe, whose 
gloomy mysteries, weird scenes, and supernatural ma- 
chinery once made her a favorite with fiction-lovers, and 
that he sought to adapt old legends to English soil. 
Others have ascribed his impulse to the influence of the 
French dramatic romancers, Eugene Sue, Victor Hugo, 
and Alexandre Dumas. I question whether he owed his 
inspiration to any particular source, although all these 
writers may have affected his temperament. Perhaps 
he unconsciously divined the needs of the reading public, 
of which his editorial experience may have taught him 



9 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

much. The inane, fashionable novel had become tire- 
some. Moreover, it was a time, in the early thirties, 
when the nation of England was absorbed in the growth 
of her material prosperity, and when a country is en- 
grossed in commerce and manufactures, in the produc- 
tion of wealth, tales of adventure seem necessary to 
stimulate flagging imagination. We have seen the evi- 
dence of it in our own land during the past ten 
years, when casting aside the metaphysical, the 
psychological, the long drawn-out analyses of character, 
the public eagerly devoured story after story of fights 
and wars, and daring deeds, whose lucky authors bore off 
rewards of fabulous amount and grew rich upon the 
royalties earned by their hundreds of thousands of cop- 
ies. 

We are told by Mr. Axon that "the inspiration came 
to him when on a visit to Chesterfield in 1831". He 
had visited Cuckfield Place, thought by Shelley to be 
"like bits of Mrs. Radcliffe", and it occurred to Ains- 
worth that he might make something of an English 
story constructed upon similar lines. Begun in 1831, 
his "Rookwood" was published in 1834. It has gener- 
ally been considered by critics to be a powerful but 
uneven story, and it leaped at once into popularity, 
carrying with it the youthful author. "The Romany 
Chant" and "Dick Turpin's Ride to York" were the 
chief features; but the Ride was the thing, like the 
chariot race in Ben-Hnr. It was actually dashed off in 
the glow of enthusiasm, the white heat of imagination. 
It was, says George Augustus Sala, "a piece of word 
painting rarely if ever surpassed in the prose of the 
Victorian Era,"* and he said this sixty years after the 



*Sala's Life and Adventures (1896) 83. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 91 

novel appeared. Ainsworth has told us the circum- 
stances. "I wrote it" he said "in twenty-four hours of 
continuous work. I had previously arranged the meet- 
ing at Kilburn Wells, and the death of Tom King — a 
work of some little time — but from the moment I got 
Turpin on the high road, I wrote on and on till I landed 
him at York. I performed this literary feat, as you are 
pleased to call it, without the slightest sense of effort. 
I began in the morning, wrote all day, and as night wore 
on, my subject had completely mastered me, and I had 
no power to leave Turpin on the high road. I was 
swept away by the curious excitement and novelty of the 
situation; and being personally a good horseman, pas- 
sionately fond of horses, and possessed moreover of 
accurate knowledge of a great part of the country, I 
was thoroughly at home with my work, and galloped on 
with my pet highwayman merrily enough. I must, how- 
ever, confess that when my work was in proof, I went 
over the ground between London and York to verify 
the distances and localities, and was not a little surprised 
at my accuracy." This tour de force — the composition 
of a hundred novel pages in so short a time, was per- 
formed at "The Elms," a house at Kilburn where he 
was then living. It brings to mind the familiar story of 
Beckford, writing Vathek in French, in a single sitting 
of three days and two nights, which is more or less 
apochryphal. 

It is a proof of the merit and of the success of this 
chapter that, like many other successful literary efforts, 
it was "claimed" by some one else. Mr. Bates refers 
rather indignantly to an assertion of R. Shelton Mac- 
kenzie, made upon the authority of Dr. Kenealy, and 
contained in the fifth volume of an American edition of 
the Nodes Ambrostanae, that Doctor William Maginn, 



92 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

of convivial fame, wrote the "Ride" as well as all the 
slang songs in "Rookwood." But Maginn was seldom 
sober and doubtless he bragged in his cups. Kenealy 
believed in Arthur Orton, the Tichborne "claimant," 
and was capable of believing in any claimant, particu- 
larly if he was an Irishman; while Mackenzie was not 
►celebrated for acumen or accuracy. Sala says of the 
absurd tale : "As to the truth or falsehood of this allega- 
tion I am wholly incompetent to pronounce ; but looking 
at Ainsworth's striking and powerful pictures of the 
Plague and the Fire in his 'Old St. Paul's,' and the 
numerous studies of Tudor life in his 'Tower of Lon- 
don,' I should say that 'Turpin's Ride to York' was a 
performance altogether within the compass of his 
capacity." 

In the light of later years, it is interesting to observe 
the comparisons made between Bulwer and Ainsworth. 
In Fraser's Magazine for June, 1834, there is a review 
of "Rookwood" in which the author is praised far 
beyond the writer of Eugene Aram and Paul Clifford. 
Bulwer, according to Sala, was fated "to be beaten on 
his own ground by another writer of fiction very much 
his inferior in genius; but who was nevertheless 
endowed with a considerable amount of melodramatic 
power, and who had acquired a conspicuous facility for 
dramatic description." It may be that the defeat drove 
Bulwer to those other fields in which he won the reputa- 
tion which has preserved his name while that of his con- 
queror of seventy years ago has faded sadly. 

It was erroneously believed by many that Ainsworth 
must have had some personal acquaintance with low life 
in London because of the ease with which he dealt with 
the thieves' jargon, but his knowledge of it was but 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 93 

second-hand for he obtained it from the autobiography 
of James Hardy Vaux.* A second edition of "Rook- 
wood" illustrated by George Cruikshank, appeared in 
1836. 

Ainsworth was now a conspicuous man, and his 
celebrity as an author, combined with his personal 
attractions, made him a welcome guest at many houses, 
notably at Gore House, where Lady Blessington so 
long held sway — "jolly old girl", he calls her in one of 
my letters, written in 1836. The beauty at forty-seven 
was as fascinating as ever. "Everybody goes to Lady 
Blessington's", says Haydon in his Diary. The effer- 
vescent Sala tells of meeting Ainsworth there in a later 
time. "I think", he says, "that on the evening in ques- 
tion there were present, among others, Daniel Maclise, 
the painter, and Ainsworth, the novelist. The author 
of "Jack Sheppard" was then a young man of about 
thirty, very handsome, but somewhat of the curled and 
oiled and glossy-whiskered D'Orsay type". The 
D'Orsay type was by no means distasteful to my lady. 
Sala relates at second-hand the anecdote about Lady 
Blessington placing herself between D'Orsay and Ains- 
worth, and saying that she had for supporters the two 
handsomest men in London. 

He was a favorite contributor to Fraser's Magazine, 
and his portrait appears among "The Fraserians", 
indeed a goodly company, for there are Coleridge, 
Southey, James Hogg, Lockhart, D'Orsay, Thackeray, 
Carlyle, Washington Irving, Sir David Brewster, and 
Theodore Hook, with many others. In the letter-press 
which accompanied the portrait,. — supposed to have 



* Axon's Memoir, xxiii: The World, March 28, 
1878. 



94 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

been written by Maginn — the Magazine says: "May 
he turn out many novels better, none worse, than 'Rock- 
wood' ; may he, as far as is consistent with the frailty 
of humanity, penetrate puffery, and avoid the three 
insatiables of Solomon, King of Israel." 

In 1837, "Crichton" was published, the hero being 
James Crichton, the "Admirable", about whose name 
has grown so much that is fabulous, but who was nev- 
ertheless a real person. The story was illustrated by 
Hablot K. Browne. It was fairly successful; some 
regard it as in many respects his best novel; but while 
it did not add materially to his fame, it did not diminish 
it. It was well done; the author spared no pains and 
as usual with him was careful in his researches. In the 
introductory essay and in the appendices, which Sidney 
Lee pronounces "very interesting", he re-printed, with 
translations in verse, Crichton's Elegy on Borromeo 
and the eulogy on Visconti. Madden intimates that 
D'Orsay occasionally figured as the model of the ac- 
complished hero. The author received £350 for the 
book — more than for "Rookwood". He had become a 
figure in the literary world and his name was something 
with which to conjure. 

In January, 1837, Richard Bentley began the publi- 
cation of Bentley's Miscellany under the editorship of 
Charles Dickens. There is a familiar story that the 
name originally proposed was "The Wit's Miscellany," 
and that when the change was mentioned in the pres- 
ence of "Ingoldsby" Barham (not Douglus Jerrold, as 
often supposed), he remarked "Why go to the other 
extreme?" In January, 1839, Dickens turned over the 
office of editor to Ainsworth, with "a familiar epistle 
from a parent to his child".* Oliver Twist had just 

*Forster's Dickens, i. 141. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 95 

been the feature of the Miscellany, and now Ainsworth 
made his second and most celebrated venture in what 
Sala calls "felonious fiction" — the immortal "Jack Shep- 
pard." 

There are some conflicting statements about dates. 
Madden says, in one place, "In 1841 he [Ainsworth] 
became the editor of 'Bentley's Miscellany'," and on 
the next page, "In the spring of 1839 he replaced Dick- 
ens in the editorship of 'Bentley's Miscellany,' and con- 
tinued as editor till 1841."* He also says that in 1839 
the novel, to be called "Thames Darrell," was adver- 
tised to appear periodically in the Miscellany, then ed- 
ited by Charles Dickens. t Robert Harrison in the Dic- 
tionary of National Biography (title Bentley) says 
that Dickens retired from the post of editor in January, 
1839. Mr. Axon tells us in the Dictionary that Ains- 
worth became the editor in March, 1840, but in the 
"Memoir" he assigns the event to the year 1838. For- 
ster puts the date 1839, which seems to be cc~ r ect, and 
the discrepancies are no doubt susceptible of exp 1 ana- 
tion. The first number of "Jack Sheppard" appeared in 
the number for January, 1839. 

The success of "Rookwood" and Oliver Twist led to 
the new essay in the series which the sanctimonious Alli- 
bone says might be very appropriately published under 
the title of the "Tyburn Plutarch" — not a very sane or 
witty remark in my opinion. Ainsworth cast over the 
scamp Jack Sheppard the mantle of romance, and made 
him "a dashing young blood of illicitly noble descent, 
who dressed sumptuously and lived luxuriously" — 
whose escapes from Newgate and other adventures were 



*Life of Lady Blessington, iii. 226, 227. 
\ldem., iii. 224. 



96 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

described with a charm and vigor which took the pub- 
lic captive. The sale exceeded even that of Oliver 
Twist, and no fewer than eight versions were pro- 
duced upon the London stage. Mr. Keeley achieved 
great notoriety as the hero, and Paul Bedford first 
made his mark in the character of Blueskin. 

It was not until these dramatic productions appeared 
that the sedate and fastidious began the outcry against 
the so-called criminal school of romance; an outcry per- 
petuated in Chambers' Encyclopaedia and in Allibone's 
Dictionary. The author and the novel were bitterly at- 
tacked. The main ground of denunciation seems to 
have been the belief that the lower orders might be 
aroused to emulate the brilliant robber, all of which is 
sheer nonsense. I am tempted to quote at length from 
a letter of Miss Mitford, the personification of an old 
maid, because it contains an epitome of the adverse 
criticism as well as a little biographical note which I 
have not encountered elsewhere. 

"I have been reading 'Jack Sheppard,' " she writes to 
Miss Barrett,* "and have been struck by the great 
danger in these times, of representing authorities so con- 
stantly and fearfully in the wrong ; so tyrranous, so dev- 
ilish, as the author has been pleased to portray it in 
'Jack Sheppard,' for he does not seem so much a man 
or even an incarnate fiend, as a representation of power 
— government or law, call it as you may — the ruling 
power. Of course, Mr. Ainsworth had no such de- 
sign, but such is the effect; and as the millions who see 
it represented at the minor theatres will not distinguish 
between now and a hundred years back, all the Char- 
tists in the land are less dangerous than this nightmare 



* January 3, 1840: Letters, Am. Edition, 1870, ii. 
p. 218. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 97 

of a book, and I, Radical as I am, lament any additional 
temptations to outbreak, with all its train of horrors. 
Seriously, what things these are — the Jack Sheppards, 
and Squeers's, and Oliver Twists, and Michael Arm- 
strongs — all the worse for the power which except the 
last, the others contain! Grievously the worse! My 
friend, Mr. Hughes, speaks well of Mr. Ainsworth. 
His father was a collector of these old robber stories, 
and used to repeat the local ballads upon Turpin, etc., 
to his son as he sat upon his knee ; and this has perhaps 
been at the bottom of the matter. A good antiquarian 
I believe him to be, but what a use to make of the pic- 
turesque old knowledge ! Well, one comfort is that it 
will wear itself out ; and then it will be cast aside like an 
old fashion." 

The latter part of the prophecy has come very near 
to fulfillment; but we have no proof that the awful 
novel caused any marked increase of crime. The real 
utility and value of stories like "Jack Sheppard" may 
well be questioned, for they surely do not belong to the 
highest and best in literature, but that any one became a 
thief or a highway robber because of them is yet to be 
demonstrated. 

It was said, and Ainsworth believed it, that the fact 
that "Jack Sheppard" had a better sale than Oliver 
Twist was the cause of some falling-off in the friendship 
which had existed between him and John Forster, who 
adored Dickens; and it is true that the Examiner, of 
which paper Forster was the chief literary critic, made 
an attack on the book. It is odd that Forster should 
have met Dickens for the first time at Ainsworth's 
house.* There was some sort of friction among the 
three friends about the time when "Jack Sheppard" was 



* Forster' s Life of Dickens, I, 118. 



98 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

in the full tide of favor and Dickens was closing the 
troublesome negotiations with Bentley about the copy- 
right of the unpublished Barnaby Rudge. A letter of 
Dickens to Ainsworth in my collection throws some 
light upon the matter. As it has never been printed, to 
the best of my knowledge, and as it cannot fail to be of 
interest to Dickens-lovers, I may be pardoned for giving 
it in full : 

"Doughty Street, 
Tuesday morning, March 26th, 1839. 
My dear Ainsworth : 

If the subject of this letter or anything contained in 
it, should eventually become the occasion of any dis- 
agreement between you and me, it would cause me very 
deep and sincere regret. But with this contingency — 
even this — before me, I feel that I must speak out with- 
out reserve and that every manly, honest and just con- 
sideration compels me to do so. 

By some means — by what means in the first instance 
I scarcely know' — the late negotiations between yourself, 
myself and Mr. Bentley have placed a mutual friend of 
ours in a false position and one in which he has no right 
to stand; and exposed him to an accusation — very rife 
and current indeed just now — equally untrue and unde- 
served, namely that he, who a short time before had 
pledged himself to Mr. Bentley (in the presence of Mr. 
Follett) to see my last agreement with that person exe- 
cuted and carried out, counselled me to break it and in 
fact entangled and entrapped the innocent and unsus- 
pecting bookseller — who being all honesty himself had 
a child-like confidence in others — into taking such steps 
as led to that result. 

Now I wish to remind you — for a purpose which I 
will tell you presently — that even by me no agreement 
whatever was broken; that I demanded a postponement 
of my agreement for the term of six months — that 
Forster (to whom I have been alluding of course) 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 99 

expressly and positively said when you pressed upon me 
the hardship of my relations with that noblest work of 
God, in New Burlington Street, that he could not and 
would not be any party to a new disruption between us 
— that he was bound to see the old agreement per- 
formed — that he wrote to Mr. Bentley warning him of 
my dissatisfaction — that he saw Mr. Bentley for a full 
hour, in his own rooms (a man must be in earnest to do 
that) — read to him a letter of mine in which I had 
expressed my feelings on the subject, and strongly urged 
upon him the necessity and propriety of some concession 
— that Mr. Bentley went away thanking him and 
appointing to call again — that he never called again — 
that he wrote me an insulting letter dictated by his law- 
yers — that Forster then washed his hands of any further 
interference between us — that Mr. Bentley then went 
out to you at Kensal Green — and that you and he, 
between you, and without any previous consultation or 
advising with Forster settled upon certain terms and 
conditions which were afterwards proposed to me 
through you, and communicated to Forster, for the first 
time and to his unbounded astonishment, by both of us. 
I remind you of all this because Mr. Bentley is going 
about town stating in every quarter what may or may 
not be his real impression of Forster's course — because 
Mr. Bentley does not appeal as an authority to you — 
because you do countenance Mr. Bentley in these pro- 
ceedings by hearing him express his opinion of Forster 
and not contradicting him. — and have aggravated him, 
indeed, by such thoughtless acts as first procuring an 
unfavorable notice of the Miscellany in the Examiner 
(by dint of urgent solicitations) and then shewing it to 
him with assumed vexation and displeasure. I remind 
you of all this, because Forster must and shall be set 
right — not with Mr. Bentley but with the men to whom 
these stories are carried and his friends as well as foes 
— because there are but two persons who can set him 
right — and because I wish to know distinctly from you 
who shall do so, without the delay of an instant — you 
or I. 



ioo AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

There is another reason which renders this absolutely 
necessary. Forster, acting for Mr. Savage Landor, 
arranged with Mr. Bentley for the publication of two 
tragedies by that gentleman, which were proceeding 
rapidly through the press when these matters occurred, 
and have since been taken from the printers by Mr. 
Bentley — not published, though the time agreed upon 
is long past; not advertised, though they should have 
been long ago — their existence not recognized in anyway 
— and all this as a means of annoyance and revenge 
against Forster who is placed in the most painful situa- 
tion with regard to Mr. Landor that it is possible to 
conceive. Mr. Landor who holds such men as Mr. 
Bentley in as little consideration as the mud of the 
streets, and who is violent and reckless when exasper- 
ated, is as certain by some public act to punish the book- 
seller for this treatment (if he be not prevented by an 
immediate atonement) as the sun is to rise to-morrow. 
This would entail upon me the immediate necessity, in 
explanation of the circumstances which led to it, of lay- 
ing a full history of these proceedings before the public, 
and the consequence would be that we and our private 
affairs would be dragged into newspaper notoriety and 
involved in controversy and discussion, for the pain of 
which nothing could ever compensate. 

But however painful it will be to me to put myself 
in communication once again with Mr. Bentley, and 
openly appeal to you to confirm what I shall tell him, 
I have no alternative unless you will frankly and openly 
and for the sake of your old friend as well as my inti- 
mate and valued one, avow to Mr. Bentley yourself that 
he is not to blame, that you heard him again and again 
refuse to interfere although deeply impressed with the 
hardship of my case — and that you proposed conces- 
sions which he — feeling the position in which he stood 
— could not have suggested. Believe me, Ainsworth, 
that for your sake no less than on Forster's account, 
this should be done. You do not see it I know, you do 
not mean it I am persuaded, but he is impressed with 
the idea, and nine men out of ten would be (if these 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 101 

matters were stated by anybody but you) that to enable 
yourself to gain your object and stand in your present 
relations towards Mr. Bentley, you have used him as an 
instrument by suppressing that which would have shewn 
his conduct in the best and truest light, and have shrunk 
from the friendly and manly avowal of feeling which 
your own impulses and freer and less worldly considera- 
tions so generously prompted. 

Once more let me say that I do not mean to hurt or 
offend you by anything I have said, and that I should 
be truly grieved to find I have done so. But I must 
speak strongly because I feel strongly, and because I 
have a misgiving that even now I have been silent too 
long. 

My dear Ainsworth, I am 

Faithfully yours, 

Charles Dickens. 

William Ainsworth Esquire." 

The little quarrel, if it was a quarrel, must have 
been composed amicably, for Forster in his Life of 
Dickens refers several times to Ainsworth in a kind and 
appreciative way. 

In 1840 Ainsworth and George Cruikshank brought 
out the "Tower of London" in monthly numbers, and 
were equal partners in the enterprise. It has always 
been regarded as a work of merit. In 1841 the author 
received £1000 from the Sunday Times for "Old St. 
Paul's", and it was later one of Cruikshank's griev- 
ances that he was not associated in this production, the 
idea of which he insisted was his own. Among my let- 
ters is one written by Cruikshank to Ainsworth on the 
subject, which has not, as far as I know, been published, 
and I give it because it reveals the relations of the two 
men quite distinctly. 



102 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

"Amwell St., March 4, 1841. 
My Dear Ainsworth : — 

Mr. Pettigrew called here yesterday and stated your 
proposition. Had that proposal been made any time 
between last December up to about a fortnight back I 
should have been happy, most happy, to have accepted 
the offer — but now I am sorry to say, but I cannot — 
no, I have so far committed myself with various parties 
that if I were to withdraw my projected publication I 
am sure that I should be a laughing stock to some and 
what is worse — I fear that with others I should lose 
all title to honor or integrity. I do assure you, my 
dear Ainsworth, I sincerely regret — that I cannot join 
you in this work, but what was I to think — what con- 
clusion was I to come to but that you had cut me. At 
the latter end of last year you announced that we were 
preparing a "new work!" in the early part of Decem- 
ber last. I saw by an advertisement that your "new 
work" was to be published in the "Sunday Times." 
You do not come to me or send for me nor send me any 
explanations. I meet you at Dickens's on "New Year's 
Eve." You tell me then that you will see me in a few 
days and explain everything to my satisfaction. I hear 
nothing from you. In your various notes about the 
"Guy Fawkes" you do not even advert to the subject. 
I purposely keep myself disengaged refusing many ad- 
vantageous offers of work — still I hear nothing from 
you. At lenth (sic) you announce a New Work as 
a companion to the "Tower"! without my name I 
then conclude that you do not intend to join me in any 
"New Work" and therefore determine to do some- 
thing for myself — indeed I could hold out no longer — 
to show that others besides myself considered that you 
had left me, I was applied to by Chapman & Hall to 
join with them and Mr. Dickens in a speculation which 
indeed I promised to do should the one with Mr. Felt 
be abandoned. However I have still to hope that when 
you are disengaged from Mr. Bentley that some ar- 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 103 

rangements may be made which may tend to our ma- 
terial benefit. 

I remain, my dear Ainsworth, yours very truly, 

Geo. Cruikshank." 

In 1 841, Ainsworth published the "Guy Fawkes" 
mentioned in Cruikshank's letter. About this time he 
seems to have become involved in disagreements with 
Bentley. On June 22, 1841, he wrote to Oilier: 

"I am scarcely surprised to learn from you that Mr. 
Bentley states that I promised Mr. Barham to write 
two separate stories for the November and December 
numbers of the Miscellany, because it is only one of 
those misstatements to which that gentleman, in all the 
negotiations I have had with him, has invariably had 
recourse. Nothing of the sort was either expressed 
or implied, and I cannot believe Mr. Barham made any 
such statement, because it is entirely foreign to the spirit 
of the whole arrangement. I will thank you however 
to give Mr. Bentley distinctly to understand that I will 
not write any such story or stories, and that if he does 
not think fit to enter into the proposed arrangement, I 
shall adhere to the original agreement and finish Guy 
Fawkes in February next. I beg you will also give 
him to understand that I will not allow Mr. Leech or 
any other artist than Mr. Cruikshank to illustrate any 
portion of the work; and that I insist upon a clause to 
that effect being inserted in the mem. of agreement." 

The remark about Cruikshank is significant when 
read in connection with the artist's letter of three 
months before, and with his subsequent conduct. For 
although it is clear that the trouble about the publication 
of "St. Paul's" had been healed, through the efforts of 
Mr. Pettigrew, he rehashed the old grievance thirty 
years later. 



io 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

A rupture with Bentley was imminent and it came 
very soon. Ainsworth left the Miscellany in 1841, and 
in February, 1842, the first number of "Ainsworth's 
Magazine" made its appearance. At first he was both 
editor and proprietor, and later he sold the magazine to 
his publishers — another of Cruikshank's grievances; but 
he afterwards bought it back, and he continued it until 
1854 when he purchased Bentley' s Miscellany and 
merged both magazines into one. In 1845 ne na cl 
bought for £2,500 Colburn's New Monthly Maga- 
zine, of which serial he had been an editor for a short 
time in 1836. In a few months he discontinued the con- 
solidated magazine and sold the New Monthly to his 
cousin, Dr. W. F. Ainsworth, closing his editorial 
career. For "Ainsworth's Magazine" he wrote "The 
Miser's Daughter", a work of considerable power, 
which was long years afterward dramatized by Andrew 
Halliday and produced at the Adelphi Theatre. In 

1843 followed "Windsor Castle", an historical romance 
with the scene laid in the reign of Henry VIII; and in 

1844 his active pen busied itself with another story of 
the same class, "St. James's or the Court of Queen 
Anne". 

During the period between 1836 and 1844, Ains- 
worth as we have seen, was closely associated with 
Cruikshank, who was destined to become a thorn in his 
side. The second issue of "Rookwood" was illustrated 
by Cruikshank, who furnished also the designs for 
"Jack Sheppard," "The Tower of London," "Guy 
Fawkes," "The Miser's Daughter," "Windsor Castle" 
(in part), and "St. James's." 

Whatever may be said of Cruikshank as an artist, 
he was beyond question a vain, self-centred and dis- 
agreeable person. "He had a tendency," says Blanchard 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 105 

Jerrold, "to quarrel with all persons with whom he had 
business relations, and when he did quarrel, his words 
knew no bounds."* He came to that stage of bound- 
less conceit when he regarded himself as the creator of 
all the works for which he supplied the illustrations and 
reduced the writer to the level of an ordinary aman- 
uensis. 

All the world knows his absurd pretensions to the 
origination of Oliver Twist. He also asserted his claim 
to everything that was good in "Jack Sheppard," "The 
Miser's Daughter," and "The Tower of London." But 
he claimed Egan's Life in London and even a poem of 
Laman Blanchard's which he had illustrated for the 
Omnibus — as well as the pattern of the hat worn by 
Russian soldiers! Blanchard Jerrold says in the Life 
that the controversies about Dickens and Ainsworth 
"arose from Cruikshank's habit of exaggeration in all 
things," which is a biographer's euphemism, signifying 
in plain English that the man was an unmitigated liar. 

If any one is curious about the history of the contro- 
versies, he will find a full, fair and dispassionate ac- 
count in Chapters VIII and IX of Jerrold's book. The 
biographer prints in full Ainsworth's dignified rejoinder 
to Cruikshank's assault, and justly ridicules the utter- 
ances of the eccentric designer. Austin Dobson, a com- 
petent and impartial judge, has recently added his con- 
demnation of Cruikshank's arrogance.f "He was not 
exempt" says Mr. Dobson "from a certain 'Roman in- 
firmity' of exaggerating the importance of his own per- 
formances — an infirmity which did not decrease with 
years. Whatever the amount of assistance he gave to 



*Life of Cruikshank (1882), i, 48-49. 
fDictionary of National Biography, Cruikshank. 



106 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Dickens and to Ainsworth, it is clear that it was not 
rated by them at the value he placed upon it. That he 
did make suggestions, relevant or irrelevant, can hardly 
be doubted, for it was part of his inventive and ever 
projecting habit of mind. It must also be conceded that 
he most signally seconded the text by his graphic inter- 
pretations; but that this aid or these suggestions were 
of such a nature as to transfer the credit of the 'Miser's 
Daughter' and 'Oliver Twist' from the authors to him- 
self is more than can reasonably be allowed." 

Mr. Frith, a friend of Cruikshank, says in his Au- 
tobiography:* "Cruikshank labored under a strange 
delusion regarding the works of Dickens and Ains- 
worth. I heard him announce to a large company as- 
sembled at dinner at Glasgow that he was the writer of 
'Oliver Twist.' * * * He also wrote the 'Tower 
of London,' erroneously credited to Ainsworth, as well 
as other works commonly understood to have been writ- 
ten by that author. My intimacy with Cruikshank en- 
ables me to declare that I do not believe he would be 
guilty of the least deviation from truth, and to this 
day I can see no way of accounting for what was a most 
absurd delusion." In fact, there is only one way, if we 
concede truthfulness to the deluded person; he was not 
of sound mind. 

That Cruikshank was pertinaciously suggestive may 
be readily admitted. "He was excessively troublesome 
and obtrusive in his suggestions" says Ainsworth. "Mr. 
Dickens declared to me that he could not stand it and 
should send him printed matter in future." He adds, in 
a kindly spirit which must appeal to every reader, con- 
sidering the grossness of the unjustifiable attack upon 
him, "It would be unjust, however, to deny that there 
was not (sic) wonderful cleverness and quickness about 

*Vol. I, 211. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 107 

Cruikshank, and I am indebted to him for many valu- 
able hints and suggestions." Ainsworth's appreciation is 
further shown by an unpublished letter in my possession, 
written on December 23, 1838, to Mr. Jones. 

"Bentley" he says "will forward you the introduc- 
tory chapters and illustrations of Jack Sheppard with 
this note. As it is of the utmost consequence to me to 
produce a favourable impression upon the public by this 
work, I venture to hope that you will lend me a help- 
ing hand at starting. * * * Cruikshank's illus- 
trations are, in my opinion, astonishingly fine. The scene 
in the loft throws into shade all his former efforts in this 
line." 

This letter also reveals what appears abundantly 
in the pages of my collection, — that Ainsworth was giv- 
en to calling on all his friends of journalistic and mag- 
azine associations to praise his books. He was not at 
all backward in urging them to puff the new works j 
and when Mr. Ebers was the manager of the opera, 
he artfully threw in suggestions of "free tickets," which 
was perhaps justifiable but scarcely consistent with dig- 
nity. 

As an example of the way in which Cruikshank took 
pains to inflict upon his author the details of his designs, 
it may not be amiss to quote a letter which is also among 
my possessions, and which has not been published, to the 
best of my knowledge. It is addressed to> Ainsworth 
and is dated "Saturday evening, 5 o'clock. 

"Jonathan Wild has hold of Jack's left arm with his 
left hand, and grasps the collar with his right. The Jew 
has both his arms round Jack's right arm and Quilt 
Arnold has hold of the right side of Jack's coat. This 
fellow in making his spring at Sheppard may upsett the 
gravedigger who nearly falls into the grave. I should 



108 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

advise the approach of the attacking party to be thus. 
The Jew and some other fellow go round the north of 
the church and lurk there and Qt. Arnold in that road 
at the N. W. corner — Wild himself to come along the 
south side so as to take Jack in the rear. Darrell is 
about to draw his sword. In the other subject I have 
given Jonathan a stout walking stick. I have only 
time to add that I am yours very truly. The cheque all 
safe, many thanks." 

Cruikshank first put forth his claim publicly in 1872, 
by means of a pamphlet called The Artist and the Auth- 
or, just after the publication of the first volume of 
Forster's Dickens. It is likely that he was encouraged 
in his folly by the flattery of foolish friends. Jerrold 
lays much blame on Thackeray, from whom he quotes a 
long passage exalting the artist far beyond the author. 
"With regard to the modern romance of 'Jack Shep- 
pard'," remarks Thackeray, "it seems to> us that Mr. 
Cruikshank really created the tale, and that Mr. Ains- 
worth, as it were, only put words to it. Let any reader 
of the novel think over it for awhile, now that it is some 
months since he had perused and laid it down — let him 
think, and tell us what he remembers of the tale. George 
Cruikshank's pictures — always George Cruikshank's 
pictures." But Thackeray had such a poor opinion of 
the book that it is strange he should have ascribed any 
merit to Cruikshank for having "created it". He called 
it "a book quite absurd and unreal, and infinitely more 
immoral than anything Fielding even wrote," if, as is 
generally supposed Thackeray was the author of the 
article on Fielding in the Times of September 2, 1840, 
reprinted in "Stray Papers" of Thackeray, edited by 
Lewis Melville and published in 1901. Thackeray 
wrote to his mother: "I read your views about 'Jack 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 109 

Sheppard', and, such is the difference of taste, thought 
it poor stuff and much below the mark."* Mr. 
Jerrold expresses the opinion that Thackeray was 
always unjust to Ainsworth. "He caricatured him 
unmercifully in Punch, and never lost an oppor- 
tunity of being amusing at his expense." I am not 
inclined to agree with Mr. Jerrold's views. The long 
and cordial intimacy of the two men is evidence against 
the truth of the theory. I find no record of any resent- 
ment on Ainsworth's part against the author of Vanity 
Fair, and Ainsworth was by no means timid in self-de- 
fense or averse to a sturdy combat with those who as- 
sailed him. Thackeray — who never got over the con- 
viction that he himself was an "artist" — a picture mak- 
er — naturally gave to the illustrator an undue meed of 
praise; and at the risk of denunciation by all the scrib- 
blers who succumb to the "disease of admiration" and 
find it easy to glorify a famous man as if he were per- 
fect and infallible, I venture to say that in grotesque- 
ness and faulty drawing, the great Snob and the great 
Cruikshank were not very dissimilar. Yet Thackeray's 
comments were wisdom itself when compared with the 
silly utterance of Mr. Walter Thornbury, who thus de- 
livers himself: "Even Dickens had his fine gold jew- 
elled by Cruikshank. Ainsworth's tawdry rubbish — 
now all but forgotten, and soon to sink deep in the mud- 
pool of oblivion, — was illuminated with a false splendor 
by the great humorist."f A critical person might be 
disposed to inquire why the "great humorist" should 
lower himself by illuminating anything with a "false 



*See introduction to Biographical Edition of Thack- 
eray, IV. 19. 

f British Artists from Hogarth to Turner, ii, 59. 



no AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

splendor." It is not complimentary to the great hu- 
morist, but Mr. Thornbury unconsciously told the truth ; 
his hero was falseness personified. 

In his "Few Words about George Cruikshank," Ains- 
worth said: "For myself, I desire to state emphatically 
that not a single line — not a word — in any of my nov- 
els was written by their illustrator, Cruikshank. In no 
instance did he even see a proof. The subjects were 
arranged with him early in the month, and about the 
fifteenth he used to send me tracings of the plates. That 
was all." He adds: "Ne sutor ultra crepidam. Had 
Cruikshank been capable of constructing a story, why 
did he not exercise his talent when he had no connec- 
tion with Mr. Dickens or myself? But I never heard 
of such a tale being published." Of course, it may be 
said that Cruikshank did not pretend that he had writ- 
ten the books — only that he had furnished the leading 
ideas; that is an easy thing to assert, a hard thing to 
disprove, and an impossible thing to demonstrate. 

It is fairly manifest that if there had been any real 
foundation for the claims of Cruikshank, he would not 
have waited for thirty years before setting up his title. 
He sought to account for the delay by asseverating that 
he had frequently in private asserted his claim, which 
anybody possessed of ordinary intelligence will see in a 
moment was a puerile make-shift; no sufficient reason 
or explanation. As nobody whose opinion is worth ac- 
cepting has ever given credence to the tale of the old 
artist, it may be a waste of time to give it further at- 
tention; but it may be permitted to show that Cruik- 
shank needed a good deal of instruction himself. 

The fact is shown by the letter of Dickens, produced 
in facsimile by Forster,* and it is confirmed by several 

*Vol. ii, 321-322. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH in 

of Ainsworth's letters now lying before me. In March, 
1836, while Cruikshank was engaged on the designs for 
the second edition of "Rookwood," Ainsworth wrote to 
Macrone, the publisher, "I have seen some of George 
Cruikshank's designs, and it was because I thought them 
so sketchy that I write to you. They are anything but 
full subjects and appear to> be chosen as much as possi- 
ble for light work. He shirked the inauguration scene, 
for instance, because it was too crowded. I quite agree 
with you that a few good designs are better than many 
meagre sketches, and all I want is that you should make 
George understand this. He has evidently two styles 
— and one can scarcely recognize in some of his 'Boz- 
zes' the hand of the designer of the Comic Almanack. 
* * * Do, I pray of you, see George Cruik- 
shank,and don't let him put us off so badly." Again, 
in writing to Macrone in 1836, he makes several recom- 
mendations for designs, and adds: "Another sugges- 
tion — and this refers to George. In addition to the 
figures I suggested, I wish him to introduce as entering 
my old gentleman's chamber, Thomas Hill, Esq. (in 
propria persona), or as I shall call him, Tom Vale. If 
George has not seen him, you can get the sketch from 
Frazer's Mag. but introduced he must be, as I mean to 
carry him throughout and to make him play the part 
of Mr. Welter in my story ; I wish George therefore to 
give the portrait, easily done, as exact as possible." In 
a later letter to Cruikshank himself, while they were at 
work together on "The Tower," he writes: "Pray, 
when you are at the Tower, sketch the gateway of the 
Bloody Tower from the south; the chamber where the 
princes were murdered; the basement chamber at the 
right of the gateway of the Bloody Tower, near the 
Round Tower." All this furnishes competent testimony 



ii2 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

that Cruikshank was a mere illustrator, directed and 
controlled by the author. 

From the time of "Jack Sheppard" until 1 88 1, a 
period of over forty years, Ainsworth was a busy man, 
producing book after book at regular intervals and 
until 1 8 $5 closely occupied with editorial labors. After 
"St. James's" he began "Auriol," which was by no 
means successful. It dealt with a London alchemist of 
the sixteenth century, but the plot was defective and it 
was not published in book form until near the close of 
the author's life. In 1848 he wrote "Lancashire 
Witches" for the Sunday Times, receiving £1,000. It 
was dedicated to his old friend James Crossley, Presi- 
dent of the Chetham Society, which published many 
volumes, including Potts's Discovery of Witches and 
the Journals of Nicolas Assheton, both furnishing much 
of the material for the story. In 1854, "Star Cham- 
ber" and "The Flitch of Bacon, or the Custom of Dun- 
mow" appeared. The "Flitch" treated of the ancient 
Essex custom of giving a "Gamon of Bacon" to a mar- 
ried pair "who had taken an oath, pursuant to the an- 
cient 'Custom of Confession,' if ever — 

" — You either married man or wife 
By household brawles or contentious strife, 
Or otherwise, in bed or at board, 
Did offend each other in deed or word, 
Or, since the Parish clerk said Amen, 
You wish't yourselves unmarried agen, 
Or in a twelve months time and a day, 
Repented not in thought, any way; 
But continued true and just in desire 
As when you joyn'd hands in the holy quire." 

In 185 1 "the lord of the manor declined to give the 
flitch, but the claimants obtained one from a public 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 113 

subscription, and a concourse of some three thousand 
people assembled in Easton Park in their honour."* 
In 1855 Ainsworth himself offered to give the flitch. 
The candidates were Mr. James Barlow and his wife, 
of Chipping Ongar, and the Chevalier de Chatelain 
and his wife, the last named being well known in lit- 
erary circles. They were old friends of Ainsworth. I 
have thirteen letters from Ainsworth to the Chevalier 
and his wife, of the most intimate character, dating 
from 1845 to 1880. In one of them, written at Brigh- 
ton on October 22, 1854, he says: 

"My dear Chevalier: Thanks for your charming lit- 
tle volume, full of graceful translations. You have done 
me the favor I find to include the 'Custom of Dunmow' 
in your collection. Within the last few days I have 
received another version in French of the same ballad 
by Jacques Desrosiers. The Tale has been translated 
under the title of 'Un An et un Jour' , and published at 
Bruxelles. You will be glad to hear that a worthy per- 
sonage has announced his intention of bequeathing a 
sum sufficient for the perpetual maintenance of the good 
old custom." 

On January 5, 1855, ne writes to Madame de Chate- 
lain: 

"I need scarcely say, I hope, that I shall be most hap- 
py to entertain your claim for the Flitch — and though 
I believe a prior claim has been made, I will gladly give 
a second prize rather than you should experience any 
disappointment." On July 19, 1855, she received the 
flitch of bacon in the Windmill Field, Dunmore. 

In 1856 "Spendthrift" appeared, and in 1857 "Mer- 
wyn Clitheroe" which he had begun in 1851 but had 



: Dict. Nat. Biog., i, 198. 



ii 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

abandoned after a few weekly numbers. In i860 he 
published "Ovingdean Grange, a Tale of the South 
Downs." The two books last mentioned were partly 
autobiographical. 

It is unnecessary to do more than to enumerate his 
later productions, for although they showed the scru- 
pulous care which he exercised in respect to details and 
the pains he took to be accurate in historical references, 
they were never as popular as his earlier works. The 
list is quite imposing: "Constable of the Tower," 
1861; "The Lord Mayor of London," 1862; "Car- 
dinal Pole," 1863; "John Law, the Projector," 1864; 
"The Spanish Match, or Charles Stuart in Madrid," 
1865; "Myddleton Pomfret," 1865; "The Constable 
de Bourbon," 1866; "Old Court," 1867; "The South 
Sea Bubble," 1868; "Hilary St. Ives," 1869; "Tal- 
bot Harland," 1870; "Tower Hill," 1871; "Bosco- 
bel," 1872; "The Manchester Rebels, or the Fatal 
'45," 1873; "Merry England," 1874; "The Gold- 
smith's Wife," 1874; "Preston Fight, or the Insurrec- 
tion of 1715," 1875; "Chetwynd Calverley," 1876; 
"The Leaguer of Lathom, a Tale of the Civil War in 
Lancashire," 1876; "The Fall of Somerset," 1877; 
"Beatrice Tyldesley," 1878; "Beau Nash," 1879; 
"Auriol and other tales," 1880; and "Stanley Brere- 
ton," 188 1. Not a single one of this long catalogue is 
now remembered. Percy Fitzgerald in an article in 
Belgravia (November, 1881), said that the descrip- 
tion of Ainsworth's books in the Catalogue of the Brit- 
ish Museum filled no fewer than forty pages. Mr. 
Axon reduces the number of pages to twenty-three, but 
that is very extensive. In addition to the prose works 
whose titles are given above, he published in 1855 "Bal- 
lads, Romantic, Fantastical and Humorous," which was 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 115 

illustrated by Sir John Gilbert and which contains some 
spirited and picturesque verses; and in 1859 "The 
Combat of the Thirty," a translation of a Breton lay 
of the middle ages, which was included in the later 
editions of the "Ballads." 

In 188 1 Ainsworth was nearly seventy-seven, and 
approaching the end of his career. On September 15 
in that year, the Mayor of Manchester, Sir Thomas 
Baker, gave a banquet in his honor at the town hall. 
In proposing the health of the guest, the Mayor said 
that in the Manchester public free libraries there were 
two hundred and fifty volumes of his works. "During 
the last twelve months", said the Mayor, "those volumes 
have been read seven thousand six hundred and sixty 
times, mostly by the artisan class of readers. And this 
means that twenty volumes of his works are being 
perused in Manchester by readers of the free libraries 
every day all the year through." 

A report of this banquet is given as an introduction 
to "Stanley Brereton", which was dedicated to the 
Mayor. I have a copy of the "official" report, a 
pamphlet of twenty-nine pages, whereof forty copies 
were printed "for private circulation only". The 
speeches are characteristic of English dinners, and some 
of them are funny without any intention on the part of 
the speakers. The Mayor rather astonishes us by say- 
ing that the six of the most popular works, in the order 
in which they were most read, were "The Tower of 
London", "The Lancashire Witches", "Old St. Paul's", 
"Windsor Castle", "The Miser's Daughter", and "The 
Manchester Rebels". But this was in Manchester. 
Ainsworth's response was modest and graceful, and he 
dwelt upon his delight in being styled "the Lancashire 
novelist". His old friend Crossley and Edmund Yates 



u6 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

were among the orators of the occasion, the latter 
responding to the toast of "The Press", and saying of 
"after-dinner Manchester" that "even in the midst of 
enjoyment he would hazard the friendly criticism that 
though it was eloquent it was not concise." The account 
ends with these significant words: "This concluded the 
list of toasts, and the company shortly afterwards broke 
up." One who reads the story of the feast is not sur- 
prised at this, for the speeches were enough to break up 
any company; but the tribute to Ainsworth was well- 
meant and sincere. 

My English friend, the prospective biographer of 
Ainsworth, takes issue with me on my assertion that his 
favorite is an author who has fallen into oblivion and 
whose books are not read by the present generation. 
He refers of course to English readers, and assures me 
that the stories are still popular in England. "Rout- 
ledge", he says, "issues a vast number of cheap editions 
of his works, and in addition many other publishing 
firms have recently issued editions of the better known 
novels. This has been done by Methuen, Newnes, Gib- 
bings, Mudie, Treherne, and Grant Richards, to men- 
tion a few that I recollect at the minute." It is doubt- 
less true that there is a demand for the tales among the 
less cultivated English readers, but it can not, I think, 
be maintained successfully that the author has a perma- 
nent and enduring literary fame. Perhaps I am influ- 
enced in my opinion by the American lack of acquaint- 
ance with Ainsworth and his works. 

Contemporaneous memoirs and records are full of 
testimony to the personal popularity of Ainsworth in 
the social life of the day. He entertained freely, and 
was a favorite guest. Dickens and Thackeray were 
both fond of him, although Blanchard Jerrold, as we 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 117 

have seen, doubted Thackeray's friendship. Forster 
says in his Dickens, referring to the period circa 1838, 
"A friend now especially welcome, too, was the novelist, 
Mr. Ainsworth, who shared with us incessantly for the 
three following years in the companionship which began 
at his house; with whom we visited, during two of these 
years, friends of arts and letters in his native Manches- 
ter, from among whom Dickens brought away his 
Brothers Cheeryble, and to whose sympathy in tastes 
and pursuits, accomplishments in literature, open- 
hearted, generous ways, and cordial hospitality, many 
of the pleasures of later years are due." I have a little 
note of his, addressed to Dickens, saying: "Don't forget 
your engagement to dine with me on Tuesday next. I 
shall send a refresher to Forster the unpunctual." 
There is also this letter from Dickens — strangely 
enough in black ink and not the blue which he employed 
in later days. 

"Devonshire Terrace, 
Fifth February, 1841. 
My Dear Ainsworth — 

Will you tell me where that Punch is to be bought, 
what one is to ask for, and what the cost is. It has 
made me very uneasy in my mind. 

Mind — I deny the beer. It is very excellent ; but that 
it surpasses that meeker, and gentler, and brighter ale 
of mine (oh how bright it is !) I never will admit. My 
gauntlet lies upon the earth. 

Yours, in defiance, 

Charles Dickens." 

One of my Thackeray letters is addressed to Ains- 
worth, dated in 1844, inviting him to dine at the Gar- 
rick, with the characteristic remark, "I want to ask 3 
or 4 of the littery purfession." Tom Moore in his 



n8 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Journal (November 21, 1838) mentions a dinner at 
Bentley's where the company was "all the very haut ton 
of the literature of the day," including himself (named 
first), Jerdan, Ainsworth, Lever, Dickens, Campbell, 
and Luttrell. We read in Mackay's "Breakfasts with 
Rogers" of a breakfast where he met Sydney Smith, 
Daniel O'Connell, Sir Augustus D'Este and Ainsworth. 
These references might be multiplied almost indefinitely. 
According to Hazlitt, Ainsworth had one rule, as a 
host, which in these days of studied unpunctuality might 
be considered unduly vigorous; when he had friends to 
dinner he locked his outside gate at the stroke of the 
clock, and no late comer was admitted. 

It is not to be denied that he had his foibles and 
that he also had his quarrels — few men of any force or 
strength of will and character can escape quarrels. That 
he fell out with Cruikshank and Bentley is not to be 
wondered at, for almost everybody did that, sooner or 
later. His passage at arms with Francis Mahony — 
the Father Prout of "Bells of Shandon" fame — is more 
to be regretted, but he was in no way to blame. He 
behaved very well under trying conditions. The trouble 
dated from Ainsworth's secession from Bentley's Mis- 
cellany — what Mr. Bates calls his "dis-Bentleyfication," 
and, ignoring their past intimacy and cordial compan- 
ionship, Mahony sneered at the man "who left the tale 
of Crichton half told, and had taken up with 'Blue- 
skin,' 'Jack Sheppard,' 'Flitches of Bacon,' and 'Lanca- 
shire Witches,' and thought such things were 'litera- 
ture,' " — following it up with some rather poor and 
clumsy verse-libels, flat, stale and unprofitable — utterly 
unworthy of a moment's time. Ainsworth replied most 
courteously in a parody of Prout, called "The Magpie 
of Marwood; an humble Ballade," which none could 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 119 

condemn as either coarse or brutal. When Mahony 
came back at his former friend with quotations from pri- 
vate letters asking eulogistic notices and literary aid, 
and when he said "Has he forgotten that he was fed 
at the table of Lady Blessington? not merely for the 
sake of companionship, for a duller dog never sat at a 
convivial board," he showed himself a despicable cad, a 
perfidious creature, well deserving the name of "Jesuit 
scribe," which was about all the retort which Ains- 
worth thought fit to make. 

The kindly and forgiving nature of Ainsworth is 
shown by a letter in my collection, written on February 
24, 1880, to Charles Kent. He says: "I always regret 
the misunderstanding that occurred between myself and 
Mahony, but any offence that was given him on my part 
was unintentional, and I cannot help thinking he was 
incited to the attack he made upon me by Bentley. Be 
this as it may, I have long ceased to think about it, and 
now only dwell upon the agreeable parts of his char- 
acter. He was an admirable scholar, a wit, a charming 
poet, and generally — not always — a very genial com- 
panion." These pleasant remarks about the man who 
had grossly insulted him, are quite characteristic and 
demonstrate the sweet reasonableness with which he 
treated men like Cruikshank and Father Prout. 

As Blanchard Jerrold says, Punch was often quite 
severe on Ainsworth. Spielmann in his History of Punch 
confirms the statement: 

"Harrison Ainsworth, as much for his good-looks and 
his literary vanity, as for his tendency to reprint his 
romances in such journals as came under his editorship, 
was the object of constant banter. An epigram put the 
case very neatly: 



120 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

"Says Ainsworth to Colburn, 

'A plan in my pate is, 
To give my romance as 

A supplement, gratis.' 
Says Colburn to Ainsworth, 

'Twill do very nicely, 
For that will be charging 

It's value precisely.' 

"Harrison Ainsworth could not have his portrait 
painted, nor write a novel of crime and sensation, with- 
out being regarded as a convenient peg for pleasantry." 

There seems to have been, unluckily, a shadow of a 
difference with William Jerdan, of the Literary Ga- 
zette, whose diffuse and often tedious Autobiography 
was published in 1853. "Among incipient authors," says 
Jerdan, "whom (to use a common phrase) it was in my 
power to 'take by the hand' and pull up the steep, few 
had heartier help than Mr. William Harrison Ains- 
worth, whose literary propensities were strong in youth, 
and who has since made so wide a noise in the world of 
fictitious and periodical literature. From some cause or 
another, which I cannot comprehend, he has given a no- 
tice to my publishers, to forbid the use of any of his cor- 
respondence in these Memoirs, though on looking over 
a number of his letters I can discover nothing discredit- 
able to him, or aught of which he has reason to be 
ashamed." I think it is not difficult to understand what 
Jerdan seemed unable to comprehend. Ainsworth did 
not care to have his confidential requests for good no- 
tices go out to the public. It was a weakness of his to 
beg for complimentary reviews and Father Prout had 
made the most of it; small wonder that he dreaded a 
repetition of the experience. Jerdan gives, however, a 
very kindly estimate of Ainsworth.* 



* Autobiography, iv, 390-393. 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 121 

In Mr. Axon's memoir, he says that an engraving by 
W. C. Edwards of a portrait of Ainsworth by Maclise 
appeared on the frontispiece of Laman Blanchard's bio- 
graphical sketch in the first number of "Ainsworth's 
Magazine". A second portrait by the same artist, 
which was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1844, 
was the frontispiece of the fifth volume of the magazine. 
A portrait by Count D'Orsay dated November 21, 
1844, appeared in the seventh volume. To this period 
belong the full-length portrait by the elder Pick- 
ersgill, the property of Chetham's Hospital, but 
now in the Manchester Reference Library, and 
a portrait by R. J. Lane. The good looks of Ains- 
worth have been referred to several times; they were 
the good looks of the days of William IV, but the Ma- 
clise and Pickersgill portraits as well as the later Fry 
photograph have a dandified appearance which in our 
modern eyes detracts from true dignity. The sketch 
in the Maclise Gallery shows him at his best, in his Fra- 
ser days, a fine and gallant figure, without the hideous 
whiskers of the type beloved by Tittlebat Titmouse. 
"This delicately drawn portrait of the novelist" com- 
ments Mr. Bates, "just at the time that he had achieved 
his reputation — hair curled and oiled as that of an As- 
syrian bull, the gothic arch coat-collar, the high neck- 
cloth, and the tightly strapped trousers — exhibits as fine 
an example as we could wish for, of the dandy of the 
D'Orsay type and pre- Victorian epoch." 

He lived at one time at the "Elms" at Kilburn, and 
later at Kensal Manor House on the Harrow Road. 
Afterwards he lived at Brighton and at Tunbridge 
Wells, When he grew old he resided with his oldest 
daughter, Fannie, at Hurstpierpoint. He had also a 
residence at St. Mary's Road, Reigate, Surrey, and there 



122 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

he died, on Sunday, January 3d, 1882. On January 
9th, he was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, with a 
quiet and simple ceremonial as he wished. His widow 
and three daughters by his first marriage survived him. 

Ainsworth had no power to portray character or to 
analyze motives ; his genius was purely descriptive. He 
had a strong literary bent, and he was a man of letters 
in the true sense. He did not possess the spark which 
gives immortality, but he toiled faithfully and his work 
was well done even if he did not reach the standard of 
the greatest of his contemporaies. 

Perhaps his merits were characterized rather too or- 
nately in the Sun of August 2, 1852, where a reviewer 
said : 

"His romances yield evidence, in a thousand particu- 
lars, that his temperament is exquisitely sensitive, not 
less of the horrible than of the beautiful. We have it 
in those landscapes variously coloured with the glow 
of Claude and the gloom of Salvator Rosa — in those 
lyrics grave as the songs of the Tyrol, or ghastly as the 
incantations of the Brocken ; but still more in those 
creations, peopling the one and chaunting the other, 
namely, some of them as the models of Ostade, and oth- 
ers wild as the wildest dreams of Fuseli. Everywhere, 
however, in these romances a preference for the grim- 
lier moods of imagination renders itself apparent. The 
author's purpose, so to speak, gravitates towards the 
preternatural. Had he been a painter instead of a ro- 
mancist, he could have portrayed the agonies of Ugo- 
lino, as Da Vinci portrayed the 'rotello del fico,' in lines 
the most haggard and lines the most cadaverous. As a 
writer of fiction, his place among his contemporaries 
may, we conceive, be very readily indicated. He occu- 



WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 123 

pies the same position in the present that Radcliffe oc- 
cupied in a former generation." 

Mr. Axon's estimate is less gorgeous but more con- 
vincing. "The essence of his power was that same 
faculty by which the Eastern story-teller holds spell- 
bound a crowd of hearers in the street of Cairo. It is 
this fascination which enables Ainsworth, at his best, 
to compel the reader's attention, and hurries him for- 
ward from the first page to the last of some tale of 
'daring-do', of crime, adventure, sorrow and love. 
The reader who has listened to the beginning does not 
willingly turn aside until the story is completed and he 
has seen all the puppets play their part with that skilful 
semblance of truth that seems more real than reality 
itself." 

It is to be hoped that the forthcoming biography will 
do ample justice to the memory of this charming literary 
personage, and may revive the fading interest in him 
and in his works. 



GEORGE PAYNE RAINSFORD JAMES 

IN a vainglorious mood I said not long ago to a 
well-dressed and apparently intelligent gentle- 
man whom I met in the house of an accom- 
plished lawyer in Washington City, that I had 
just had the privilege of conversing with the 
extremely modern novelist, Mr. Henry James. He 
smiled amiably and remarked airily, "Oh, the two 
horsemen fellow". 

The remark was not without significance, because it 
betrayed the fact that my casual acquaintance, who 
might well be presumed to represent what is called "the 
average citizen" of this enlightened country; who was 
fairly well educated; who had read enough to know of 
the famous horsemen and of their habitual appearance 
in the opening chapter; who assuredly had skimmed 
the book-notices in our wonderful newspapers; was, 
after all, more distinctly impressed by the writer of 
sixty years ago than by the contemporaneous author 
whose volumes bid fair to rival in number those of his 
namesake — an author whose style defies definition and 
bewilders the simple-minded searcher after a good 
story. 

I confess that I am puzzled by these subtle writers 
with their involved sentences, their clouds of verbiage, 
and their incomprehensible wanderings in speculative 
mysteries. There is a delight about the direct and there 
is often disappointment about the indirect. The true 
lover of fiction revels in the directness of Dumas and of 

125 



126 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Dickens, but he usually accepts the intricacies of the 
modern school because he is told that he ought to do so 
or because, alone and unaided, he can discover nothing 
better in the product of the day. 

To my Washington friend I replied, with that offen- 
sive assumption of superiority which marks the man 
familiar with his encyclopaedia, that the writer of whom 
he was thinking had closed his career and finished the 
last chapter of his life nearly half a century ago, when 
Henry James was only seventeen and had not yet 
dreamed of Daisy Miller or forecasted the genesis of 
the two closely printed volumes of The Golden Bowl. 
I discerned the truth, however, that the subject was not 
interesting and we changed the topic of conversation. 

The earlier James has not been favored by the men 
who compile histories of English literature. Nicoll and 
Seccombe merely call him "the prolific James", but 
devote large space to many inferior writers. Garnett 
and Gosse ignore him entirely. It seems to be a rule 
among self-constituted critics to speak of him with indif- 
ference; I think he deserves more respectful treatment. 
It may be that he has been a victim of that merciless 
propensity of men to throw stones at him who has been 
the subject of ridicule by those who have won popular- 
ity; when one cur barks, the whole pack joins vigor- 
ously. As Mr. Stapleton in Jacob Faithful profoundly 
observes, it is "human natur". When Macaulay damned 
poor Montgomery to lasting ignominy, he deliberately 
consigned the luckless poet to undeserved contempt; and 
Macaulay's essay will live while but for its caustic con- 
demnation Montgomery would be utterly forgotten. 

The "horseman" tag has for many years attached 
itself to G. P. R. James and has done much to bring 
him into ridicule. It is strange how such tags preserve 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 127 

immortality, despite the fact that they are often unjust 
and deceiving. What is printed, remains. A New 
York journal said recently: "An error once made in 
print, it seems will never die; a mis-statement may be 
corrected within the hour, but it goes on its travels with- 
out the correction and becomes a bewildering part of 
written history". It is true also concerning a "tag". 
In literature, Bret Harte's paradies, the Rejected 
Addresses, and the many clever things contained in Mr. 
Hamilton's amusing compilation, show how easy it is to 
discover a mannerism and to attach to an author a label 
which will always identify him. 

Possibly the popularity of the "horseman" remark is 
due in some degree to Thackeray, who began "that 
fatal parody," the burlesque "Barbazure, by G. P. R. 
Jeames Esq. etc." in this wise: "It was upon one of 
those balmy evenings of November which are only 
known in the valleys of Languedoc and among the 
mountains of Alsace, that two cavaliers might have been 
perceived by the naked eye threading one of the rocky 
and romantic gorges that skirt the mountain land be- 
tween the Marne and the Garonne." Our own John 
Phoenix in his review of the "Life of Joseph Bowers the 
Elder" — I quote from the original edition, and not from 
the one printed by the Caxton Club which omits this 
gem — says of one of Mr. Bowers's supposititious 
works: "The following smacks, to us, slightly ot 
'Jeems.' 'It was on a lovely morning in the sweet spring 
time, when two horsemen might have been seen slowly 
descending one of the gentle acclivities that environ the 
picturesque valley of San Diego.' " Mr. Edmund Gosse 
continues the tradition when in his Modern English Lit- 
erature, he tells us of the days when "the cavaliers of G. 
P. R. James were riding down innumerable roads"; 



128 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

while Justin McCarthy in the History of Our Own 
Times remarks pleasantly — "Many of us can remem- 
ber, without being too much ashamed of the fact, that 
there were early days when Mr. James and his cavaliers 
and his chivalric adventures gave nearly as much delight 
as Walter Scott could have given to the youth of a pre- 
ceding generation. But Walter Scott is with us still, 
young and old, and poor James is gone. His once 
famous solitary horseman has ridden away into actual 
solitude, and the shades of night have gathered over 
his heroic form". Here we perceive a variation from 
the familiar allusion. The "two horsemen" have con- 
densed themselves into a single rider. 

While we are speaking of the horsemen, it may not 
be amiss to recall what James thought of them. In 
1 85 1 he published a story called "The Fate," and in the 
sixteenth chapter he deals with them in a manner quite 
amusing but also quite pathetic. He is talking about 
plagiarism and he wanders into other fields. He says: 

"As to repeating one's self, it is no very great crime, 
perhaps, for I never heard that robbing Peter to pay 
Paul was punishable under any law or statute, and the 
multitude of offenders in this sense, in all ages, and in 
all circumstances, if not an excuse, is a palliation, show- 
ing the frailty of human nature, and that we are as frail 
as others — but no more. The cause of this self-repeti- 
tion, probably, is not a paucity of ideas, not an infer- 
tility of fancy, not a want of imagination or invention, 
but like children sent daily to draw water from a stream, 
we get into the habit of dropping our buckets into the 
same immeasurable depth of thought exactly at the 
same place ; and though it be not exactly the same water 
as that which we drew up the day before it is very sim- 
ilar in quality and flavor, a little clearer or a little more 
turbid, as the case may be. 

"Now this dissertation — which may be considered as 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 129 

an introduction or preface to the second division of my 
history — has been brought about, has had its rise, ori- 
gin, source, in an anxious and careful endeavor to 
avoid, if possible, introducing into this work the two 
solitary horsemen — one upon a white horse — which, 
by one mode or another, have found their way into prob- 
ably one out of three of all the books I have writ- 
ten and I need hardly tell the reader that the name 
of these books is legion. They are, perhaps, too many ; 
but, though I must die, some of them will live — I know 
it, I feel it ; and I must continue to write while this spir- 
it is in this body. 

To say truth, I do not know why I should wish to 
get rid of my two> horsemen, especially the one on the 
white horse. Wouvermans always had a white horse 
in all his pictures; and I do not see why I should not 
put my signature, my emblem, my monogram, in my pa- 
per and ink pictures as well as any painter of them all. 
I am not sure that other authors do not do the same 
thing — that Lytton has not always, or very nearly, a 
philosophizing libertine — Dickens, a very charming 
young girl, with dear little pockets; and Lever a bold 
dragoon. Nevertheless, upon my life, if I can help it, 
we will not have in this work the two horsemen and 
the white horse; albeit, in after times — when my name 
is placed with Homer and Shakespeare, or in any other 
more likely position — they may arise serious and acrim- 
onious disputes as to the real authorship of the book, 
from its wanting my own peculiar and distinctive mark 
and characteristic. 

But here, while writing about plagiarism, I have been 
myself a plagiary; and it shall not remain without ac- 
knowledgment, having suffered somewhat in that sort 
myself. Here, my excellent friend, Leigh Hunt, soul 
of mild goodness, honest truth, and gentle brightness! 
I acknowledge that I stole from you the defensive image 
of Wouverman's white horse, which you incautiously 
put within my reach, on one bright night of long, dreamy 
conversation, when our ideas of many things, wide as 
the poles asunder, met suddenly without clashing, or 



i 3 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

produced but a cool, quiet spark — as the white stones 
which children rub together in dark corners emit a soft 
phosphorescent gleam, that serves but to light their lit- 
tle noses."* 

I hold no brief for James. I cannot assert truthfully 
that I am particularly well acquainted with more than 
four or five of his numerous books, although I remem- 
ber with delight the perusal of some of them when I 
was a boy, reading for the story alone. But I am confi- 
dent that he had his merits, and that much of the abuse 
showered upon him by critics has been undeserved; that 
he was a careful and conscientious writer whose novels 
are fit to be read, and that while he may no longer be 
ranked among "the best sellers", he deserves a high 
place of honor among those who have entertained, 
amused and instructed their fellow men. It is only 
about two years ago that the Routledges of London 
considered it wise to begin the new career of their house 
by re-issuing in twenty-five volumes the historical novels, 
and cheaper reproductions are widely circulated. In a 
recent number of a New York magazine the editor says 
that "the fact is that James has always had a big public 
of his own — the public in fact that does not consult the 
'Dictionary of National Biography' " — referring to the 
disparaging article in the Dictionary about which I will 
have something to say later on. There are authors who 
are always praised by the critics but ignored by the 



*As a matter of curiosity, I examined the twenty-one 
novels composing the "Revised Edition" of 1 844-1 849 
to ascertain just how many introduced the horseman or 
horsemen in the first chapter. Seven disclose them; in 
eight they are absent; in four, the horsemen are "a 
party"; in two, they appear in the second chapter, the 
first being merely introductory. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 131 

proletariat of readers; there are authors whom the 
critics affect to despise but who have many readers 
whose judgments are not embalmed in print. James 
seems to belong to the last-mentioned class. Yet few 
are acquainted with the man himself, and I have thought 
that it might not be amiss to give a short account of 
him, referring to the estimates of his character and abil- 
ity by those of his own time and also to some autograph 
letters of his which are in my possession and which have 
not been published. 

The details of his life are not very well known; it 
was not a stirring or an eventful one. It was the life of 
a quiet, dignified and unostentatious man of letters, 
unmarked by fierce controversies and wholly devoid of 
domestic troubles. If his reputation has not long sur- 
vived him among the critical it is because of a law of 
literature which Mr. Brander Matthews says is inex- 
orable and universal. The man who has the gift of 
story telling and nothing else, who is devoid of humor, 
who does not possess the power of making character, 
who is a "spinner of yarns" only, has no staying power, 
and "however immense his immediate popularity may 
be, he sinks into oblivion almost as soon as he ceases to 
produce".* James seems to have had only in a small 
degree "the power of making character", and although 
he had a sense of humor, it manifests itself in his novels 
only in a mildly unobtrusive way. 

George Payne Rainsford James was born in George 
Street, Hanover Square, London, on August 9th, 1799. 
His father was a physician who had seen service in the 
navy and was in America during the Revolution, serving 
in Benedict Arnold's descent on Connecticut. The son 



*Brander Matthews: Aspects of Fiction, 153. 



132 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

of the novelist, who is still living in Wisconsin, tells 
me that his grandfather (as he hinted) shot a man 
with his own hands to stop the atrocities of the siege 
in which Ledyard fell. The physician was also in the 
vessel which brought Rodney the news of De Grasse 
and enabled him to win the great naval victory which 
assisted England to make peace creditably. His paternal 
grandfather was Dr. Robert James, whose "powders" 
for curing fevers enjoyed great celebrity at one time,* 
but his chief title to fame is that he was admired by 
Samuel Johnson who said of him, "no man brings more 
mind to his profession. "f I regret that there is a cruel 
insinuation by the great personage which implies that 
Doctor Robert was not sober for twenty years, but there 
is some doubt whether Johnson was really referring to 
James. § Those were days of free indulgence, and much 
may be pardoned; at all events, no one could ever 
accuse the grandson of such an offence. 

Young George attended the school of the Reverend 
William Carmalt at Putney, but he was not fortunate 
enough to have the advantage of a university educa- 
tion, which despite the sneers of those who never 
attended a university, is an important element in the 
life of any man who devotes himself to literature. It 
is a great corrective, and those who regard the subject 
from a point of view wholly utilitarian do not compre- 
hend in the least degree what is meant by it. James 
soon developed a fondness for the study of languages, 
not only what are called "the classics," but of Persian 



*They are said to have caused the death of Oliver 
Goldsmith, and pamphlets were published on the sub- 
ject. Foster's Oliver Goldsmith, II. 461-463. 

tBoswell (Geo. Birkbeck Hill's Edition), I. 183. 

§Id., III. 442. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 133 

and Arabic although he says he "sadly failed in master- 
ing Arabic." This taste of his may account in part for 
his extensive vocabulary, and it may be that his diffuse- 
ness, so much criticised, was due in some degree to his 
ready command of an unusual number of words. In 
his younger days, he studied medicine, as might have 
been expected, but his inclination was in a different 
direction. He wanted to go into the navy, but says 
Mr. C. L. James, "his father, who had a sailor's experi- 
ence and manners, said, 'you may go into the army if 
you like — it's the life of a dog; but the navy is the life 

of a d d dog, and you shant try it." 

He did accordingly go into the army for a short time 
during the "One Hundred Days," and was wounded in 
one of the slight actions which followed Waterloo ; but 
he never rose beyond the rank of lieutenant. His son 
writes: "The British and Prussian forces were disposed 
all along the frontier to guard every point, and Well- 
ington, with whom my father was acquainted, did not 
like the arrangement — it was Blucher's. When Napol- 
eon crossed the Sambre at Charlevoi, the Duke saw his 
purpose of taking Quatre Bras, between the English 
and Prussians, so he sent word to all his own detach- 
ments to fall in, 'running as to a fire.' * * * My 
father's company was among those too late for the great 
battle. I have heard him tell how the cuirassiers lay 
piled up, men and horses, to the tops of lofty hedges. 
* * * My father also said that he saw a dead 
cuirassier behind our lines, showing there must have 
been a time when they actually pierced the allied centre. 
When he was on the field they were bringing in French 
prisoners, who would have been massacred by the Prus- 
sians but that English soldiers guarded them. Many 
years afterwards the Duke of Wellington said to my 



i 3 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

father, in his abrupt way, 'You were at Waterloo, I 
think?' 'No,' he replied 'I am sorry to say.' 'Why 
sorry to say,' rejoined Wellington, 'if you had been 
there, you might not have been here.' Another of his 
anecdotes about the Duke is that just after Waterloo, 
where it is well known that a great part of the allied 
army was wholly routed, some officers were talking 
about who 'ran', when Wellington, who had been 
quietly listening to these unhopeful personalities, cut in 
thus: " 'Run! who wouldn't have run under a fire like 
that? I am sure I should — if I had known any place to 
run to.' " 

One incident in his army life is of interest. Some 
thirty years ago Mr. Maunsell B. Field, a gentleman 
whose title to fame is somewhat dubious, published a 
book called "Memories of Many Men." He knew 
James well, and collaborated with him in one of his 
books — "Adrian, or the Clouds of the Mind." Mr. 
Field says, after mentioning an alleged fact which is 
not a fact, viz: that James was taken prisoner before 
the battle of Waterloo and detained until after the bat- 
tle, "The incident which occurred during his confine- 
ment there cast a gloom upon the rest of his life. For 
some cause which he never explained to me, he became 
engaged in a duel with a French officer. He escaped 
unhurt himself, but wounded his adversary who died, 
after lingering for months. I have still in my possession 
the old-fashioned pistols with which this duel was 
fought, which my deceased friend presented to me at 
the time of our early acquaintance."* Field's story is 
made up in a ridiculously inaccurate way. James was 



*Memories: by M. B. Field p. 188 — Harper's, 
1874. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 135 

not captured before Waterloo, or after it, for that mat- 
ter. During his later travels he became involved in a 
difficulty with a French officer and found himself com- 
pelled, according to the absurd practice of the time, to 
fight a duel with him. The Frenchman was not killed, 
but only wounded in the arm, and the duel was fought 
with swords, not with pistols ! The truth is, that after 
the sword-duel, James was challenged to fight again 
with pistols. Mr. C. L. James writes me thus: "It 
made him (G. P. R. James) very angry; and, being a 
good shot then, he felt confident of the result if he 
should accept but said he would put the point of honor 
to the French officer's regiment. They replied by invit- 
ing him to dine at the mess. On receiving this message, 
he took up his pistols which were ready, loaded, say- 
ing 'then we shall have no use for these,' and at that 
moment one of them went off, sending the bullet 
through the floor close to his foot, though he felt sure 
they were not cocked." Mr. Field undoubtedly meant 
to tell the truth, but his reminiscences cannot be relied 
upon in regard to James or to any one else. 

As a lad of seventeen he wrote a number of sketches, 
afterwards published under the title of "A String of 
Pearls," which were rather free translations from the 
oriental tales he had studied so fondly.* He travelled 
extensively for those times, visiting France and Spain 
soon after the abdication of Napoleon. These early 
travels and adventures supplied him with the idea of 
Morley Ernstein. He became acquainted with Cuvier 
and other men of eminence, and it is gratifying to 



*Allibone gives the date of publication as 1849; Dut 
it must have been published in some form prior to May 
17, 1833. See post, page 184. 



136 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Americans to know that Washington Irving liked him 
and gave him encouragement. It has been said that his 
first work was the Life of Edward the Black Prince, 
said to have been produced in 1822, but one of my let- 
ters, written in 1835, indicates that it was not produced 
earlier than 1836. The son thinks it must have been 
written before 1830. He had a disposition to enter 
political life, but he abandoned the idea in 1827. He 
was a mild Tory. His ambition was in the direction of 
a diplomatic career. His father had some influence with 
Lord Liverpool, who offered him the post of Secretary 
to an Embassy to China, — a temporary appointment 
only, and one which promised him no preferment. It 
was declined, and a week later Lord Liverpool died 
suddenly. 

In 1828 he married the daughter of Honoratus 
Leigh Thomas, an eminent physician of that day. She 
survived her husband exactly thirty-one years, dying at 
Eau Claire, Wisconsin, on June 9th, 1891. The asser- 
tion made in some accounts of him that James married 
in the United States is wholly untrue. After the mar- 
riage, they lived in France, Italy and Scotland. 

In 1825 he wrote his first novel, Richelieu, which 
was not published until 1829. Regarded by many as 
the best of his novels, it is an excellent example of his 
strength and of his weakness. It deals with elementary 
emotions, and makes but slight attempts to portray 
character except in the simplest and most obvious way. 
Although it bears the name of the great Cardinal, it 
might as well have been called "Louis XIII", or "Cha- 
vigni," or "The Count de Blenau", for Richelieu him- 
self appears but seldom on the scene and is not the hero 
or the central figure. The narrative runs briskly on, 
plentifully seasoned with deeds of daring and hair- 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 137 

breadth escapes, culminating in the familiar climax of 
the almost miraculous arrival of a pardon when the hero 
has bared his neck to receive the axe of the executioner. 
It is evident from the outset that the nobleman whose 
fortunes are the subject of the story and the conven- 
tional lady of his love will marry and "be happy ever 
after." The abundant historical and antiquarian pad- 
ding is admirably devised and executed, well placed 
and never tiresome. The tale is skilfully constructed 
and if it teaches any lesson, it is that of courage, truth, 
honor and loyalty. Our modern "historical novels" are 
in many respects distinctly inferior to Richelieu. Singu- 
larly enough, he did not include it in the revised edition 
of his Works. 

After reading Richelieu, Sir Walter Scott advised 
him to adopt literature as a profession, and as he imi- 
tated Scott, the value of the advice is not to be under- 
estimated. As Mr. Field's story goes, James had kept 
the manuscript concealed from his father, but he man- 
aged to get an introduction to Scott, who promised to 
give him his opinion. After six months no news had 
come from Scotland. James was riding one day in Bond 
Street, when, his horse shying, his carriage was pressed 
against another. The occupant of the other carriage 
was Scott, and he invited James to call upon him. To 
his surprise and delight, Scott praised the book highly, 
and wrote his opinion, which enabled the lucky author 
to find a publisher, to whom he sold the copyright for 
a song. In his General Preface to the Works (1844- 
1849) James himself gives a very different account of 
the matter. He says that a friend showed Sir Walter 
one volume of a romance written long before, and he 
himself sent a letter to Scott asking advice in regard to 
persevering in a literary career. Some months passed, 



138 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

and James "felt somewhat mortified and a good deal 
grieved" at receiving no response, but one day, on re- 
turning from thee ountry to London, he found a packet 
on his table containing the volume and a note. "The 
opinion expressed in that note" adds James "was more 
favourable than I had ever expected, and certainly more 
favourable than I deserved; for Sir Walter was one 
of the most lenient of critics, especially to the young. 
However, it told me to persevere, and I did so."* Irv- 
ing and Scott united in encouraging him to produce his 
next novel, Darnley, with another great Cardinal as a 
principal character. Darnley was sketched and drafted 
at Montreuil-sur-Mer in December, 1828, and was com- 
pleted in a few months. It is still popular with readers 
of fiction and has much of the charm which pervades its 
predecessor. James lived for a time at Evreux, and De 
I'Orme, written there in 1829, appeared in 1830. Philip 
Augustus was produced in less than seven weeks, and 
was published in 1831. Under William IV he was 
appointed Historiographer Royal, and published sev- 
eral pamphlets officially. f In 1842 he lived at Walmer, 
and was frequently a guest of the Duke of Wellington 
at Walmer Castle — a fact jocosely mentioned in the 
Life of Charles Lever, where it is recorded that Lever 
said to McGlashan that he must beware of James, who 
had become dangerous from irritation, but suggested 
that as James had been dining twice a week with the 
Duke, "he had eaten himself into a more than ordinary 
bilious temper."§ In 1845 ne went to Germany, partly 
for recreation and partly to obtain information to be 



*Works Vol. I. "The Gipsey," vii. 

fDictionary of National Biography, xxix, 209-210. 

§Fitzpatrick's Life of Lever, II — 21. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 139 

used in the History of Richard Coeur de Lion, upon 
which he was then engaged. The illness of his chil- 
dren detained him for a year; and at Karlsruhe and 
Baden-Baden he wrote Heidelberg and the Castle of 
Ehrenstein. On his return to England he lived for 
some time near Farnham, Surrey, where he wrote 
voluminously. He was accustomed to rise at five in the 
morning, to write with his own hand until nine, and 
later in the day to dictate to an amanuensis, walking to 
and fro meanwhile. 

Towards 1850 he decided to leave England and go 
to America. His original intention was to settle in 
Canada. He had met with severe pecuniary reverses. 
The collected edition of his works was illustrated with 
steel engravings, but after a few volumes had appeared 
the publisher failed. The engraver sued James as a 
partner in the enterprise, and poor James had to pay 
several thousand pounds. In this plight he sought his 
friend, the Duke of Northumberland, who endeavored 
to dissuade him from leaving England and offered him 
a signed check, with the amount left blank, asking him 
to accept it and fill the blank himself. To his credit, 
James declined the generous gift.* 

When he reached New York in July, 1850, he took 
lodgings in the old New York Hotel. He had many 
letters of introduction, including one to Horace Gree- 
ley, who, he said, had "the head of a Socrates and the 
face of a baby." Hotel life proving unsatisfactory, he 
rented Charles Astor Bristed's house at Hell Gate, op- 
posite Astoria. Of his many troubles in getting into 
his new home, he wrote an amusing account in verse 



*This is all according to Field, and may be taken for 
what it is worth. 
10 



i 4 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

^which Mr. Field prints.* Field tells a story of a wealthy 
man of New York who was introduced to James, and 
remarked that he was a great admirer of the works, 
that he believed he had read all that were published, 
and that there was one "which he vastly preferred to all 
the others." "And which is that?" asked James. "The 
Last Days of Pompeii," was the answer. "That is 
Bulwer's, not mine," replied the mortified novelist. He 
also tells of a lady who found in a village library what 
she supposed to be a copy of an English edition of one 
of James's novels in two volumes. She read them with 
much enjoyment, and did not discover until she had 
finished them, that she had been reading the first volume 
of one and the second volume of another. With admir- 
able tact and discretion Field told this to James, and 
says "he winced under it." 

In 1 85 1 he hired a furnished house at Stockbridge, 
Massachusetts, and later he bought property there, 
making some laudable efforts at farming. Mr. Field 
says: 

"In the meantime he was also industriously pegging 
away at book-making, although to the casual observer 
he appeared to be the least occupied man in the place. 
He never did any literary work after eleven o'clock A. 
M. until evening. He was not accustomed to put his 
own hand to paper, when composing, but always 
employed an amanuensis. At this time he had in his 
service in that capacity the brother of an Irish baronet, 
who spoke and wrote English, French, German and 
Italian, and whom I had procured for him at the modest 
stipend of five dollars a week. When James was dic- 
tating, he always kept a paper of snuff upon the table 
on which his secretary wrote, and he would stride up 



*Memoirs, 191-195. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 141 

and down the room, stopping every few minutes for a 
fresh supply of the titillating powder. He never looked 
at the manuscript, or made any corrections except upon 
proof-sheets." 

During that summer James and Field produced 
Adrian, finishing it in five weeks. Notwithstanding 
Field's assertion that "it was very kindly received by the 
critics," it does not appear to have enjoyed any marked 
success. 

In 1852 he was appointed British Consul at Norfolk, 
Virginia. He was not contented there, as we may see 
from his letters; but he received many kindnesses, and 
on the last night he spent in the United States he spoke 
to Field of the Virginians, as "a warm hearted people." 
His health suffered and his spirits also; the yellow fever 
raged in the city and caused him great trouble and 
anxiety. While in the United States he wrote Ticonde- 
roga, The Old Dominion, and other novels; his fertile 
pen was always busy. His latest work was The Cavalier, 
published in 1859. In 1856 the Consulate was removed 
to Richmond. At his earnest request he was trans- 
ferred from Virginia in September, 1858, and was 
appointed Consul General at Venice, where it was hoped 
that his health would improve. The war between 
France and Austria soon broke out, his labors and 
anxieties were increased and in April, i860, his illness 
became serious. On June 9, i860, he died of an 
apoplectic stroke, "an utter break up of mind preceding 
the end" as Lever wrote. He was buried in Venice — 
some accounts say in the Lido cemetery, but the monu- 
ment, erected by the English residents in Venice, is in 
the Protestant portion of the cemetery of St. Michele, 
which is on an island not far from the Lido. Laurence 
Hutton, in his Literary Landmarks of Venice, refers to 



i 4 2 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

a vague tradition among the older alien residents that he 
was buried in the Lido, where, Hutton says, there are a 
few very ancient stones and monuments marking the 
graves of foreign visitors to Venice, none of them seem- 
ing to be of a later date than the middle of the eigh- 
teenth century. But Sir Francis Vincent, the last Brit- 
ish Ambassador to the Venetian Republic, is buried 
there. Mr. Hutton adds that the stone in St. Michele 
is "a tablet blackened by time, broken and hardly 
decipherable" ; but when I saw it in the summer of 1906 
it was only slightly discolored, and not broken at all. 
It showed no evidence of restoration, and was blackened 
only as much as much as might be expected of a stone 
forty-five years old in a climate like that of Venice. The 
epitaph, written by Walter Savage Landor, is absolutely 
distinct and easily read. 

"George Payne Rainford James. 

British Consul General in the Adriatic. 

Died in Venice, on the 9th day of June, i860. 

His merits as a writer are known wherever the Eng- 
lish language is, and as a man they rest on the hearts 
of many. 

A few friends have erected this humble and perish- 
able monument." 

Hutton attempts to give the epitaph in full but makes 
an unaccountable error in substituting "heads" for 
"hearts." It is another illustration of the ill will of 
the fates that even on his tombstone his name should 
be inscribed incorrectly. "Rainford" is doubtless the 
mistake of the Italian who prepared the monument.* 



*It is said, but on rather dubious authority, that he 
was sometimes called "George Prince Regent James," 
and that many believed it to be his real name. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 143 

Mr. J. A. Hamilton, in the Dictionary of National 
Biography, says : "An epitaph, in terms of somewhat 
extravagant eulogy, was written by Walter Savage 
Landor." The epitaph, which I copied word for word, 
scarcely deserves Mr. Hamilton's censure. Surely 
there is nothing extravagant about it. I regret that in 
such a valuable work as the Dictionary , the account of 
James is so slight, perfunctory, and in many respects 
inaccurate. It could have been made much better, and 
it is in marked contrast with most of the biographical 
sketches included in that admirable compendium. 

Mr. Hamilton sums up in a careless and indifferent 
way the literary career of James. "Flimsy and melo- 
dramatic as James's romances are, they were highly 
popular. The historical setting is for the most part 
laboriously accurate, and though the characters are 
without life, the moral tone is irreproachable; there is 
a pleasant spice of adventure about the plots, and the 
style is clear and correct. The writer's grandiloquence 
and artificiality are cleverly parodied by Thackeray in 
'Barbazure, by G. P. R. Jeames, Esq., &c.,' in 'Novels 
by Eminent Hands,' and the conventional sameness of 
the opening of his novels, 'so admirable for terseness,' 
is effectively burlesqued in 'The Book of Snobs,' chap, 
ii. and xvi." It is the old story: Thackeray made fun 
of him, and so — away with him ! Yet there was a time 
when everybody read James and few read Thackeray. 
I venture to assert that the romances are neither flimsy 
nor melodramatic, unless Scott's romances are flimsy 
and melodramatic. I find no grandiloquence in them. 

Probably the best and most authoritative sketch of 
his life is contained in the preface which he wrote for 
the collected edition of his novels, published, in twenty- 
one volumes, in 1 844-1 849. Of course this includes no 



i 4 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

account of the last ten years of his career. The number 
of volumes he gave to the world was enormous, as may 
be seen from the list of his works compiled from the 
Dictionary and from Allibone's laboriously minute 
record.* They tell of his untiring industry; evidently 
he loved to write for the sake of writing. His books 
brought him a goodly income, but although he seems to 
have had a small fortune at one time, he was generally 
poor; careless about his expenditure; ever ready and 
willing to give aid to those who needed it, particularly 
to his literary brethren; a noble, honest Christian gentle- 
man, devoid of selfishness; a good husband and father, 
simple and direct in his ways, charitable, open-hearted, 
deserving of the esteem and affection of all who knew 
him. It was said of him by a writer who deplored "the 
fatal facility" of the novels, that "there is a soul of true 
goodness in them — no maudlin affectation of virtue, but 
a manly rectitude of aim which they derive directly from 
the heart of the writer. His enthusiastic nature is visibly 
impressed upon his productions. They are full of his 
own frank and generous impulses — impulses so honor- 
able to him in private life. Out of his books, there is 
no man more sincerely beloved. Had he not even been 
a distinguished author, his active sympathy in the 
cause of letters would have secured to him the attach- 
ment and respect of his contemporaries." 

His activity was by no means limited to the field of 
prose fiction. In poetry, he produced The Ruined City 
in 1828; Blanche of Navarre, a five act play, in 1839, 
and Camaralzaman, a "fairy drama" in three acts, in 
1848. My "first edition" of Blanche of Navarre, a 
pamphlet of ninety-eight pages, with a dedication to 

*See Appendix. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 145 

Talfourd, — until it came into my hands. After an exist- 
ence of sixty-six years, unvexed by the paper-knife, and 
in that "unopened" condition so dear to the heart of a 
collector — does not disclose any good reason for its 
creation. The finale of Act III is an example of its 
"lofty poetic tone" — 

"Don John (pointing to the gallery). 
We have spectators there ! A lady points ! 
Let us go succour her! 

Don Ferdinand (stopping him). 
Nay, I beseech! 
Most likely 'tis my sister! — Foolish child! 
She has maids there enow, — Lo, they are gone! 
We'll close the night with wine. 

\_The drop scene descends to dumb-show]." 

So we might suppose. The hospitable suggestion of 
Don Ferdinand has a flavor of reckless rioting about it 
which brings to mind the one time favorite amusement 
of a Tammany Hall leader — "opening wine." 

It is only fair to let him tell his own story about his 
literary fecundity. He says : 

"Before I close my present task, I may be permitted 
to say a few words in regard to the observations which 
are uniformly made upon every author who writes rap- 
idly and often. I will not repeat the frequently noticed 
fact, that the best writers have generally been the most 
voluminous ; for I must contend that neither the number 
of an author's works, nor the rapidity with which they 
are produced, affords any criterion whatsoever by which 
to judge of their merit. They may be numerous and ex- 
cellent, like those of Voltaire, Scott, Dryden, Vega, 
Boccacio and others; they may be rapidly written, and 
yet accurate, like the great work of Fenelon, and they 
may be quite the reverse. * * * I may mention, 
in my own case, a few circumstances which may ac- 



146 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

count for the number and rapidity of my works. In 
the first place, all the materials for the tales I have 
written, and for many more than I ever shall write, 
were collected long before this idea of entering upon a 
literary career ever crossed my mind. In the next place, 
I am an early riser, and any one who has that habit must 
know that it is a grand secret for getting through twice 
as much as lazier men can perform. Again, I write 
and read during some portion of every day, except 
when I am travelling, and even then if possible. I need 
not point out, that regular application in literary, as 
well as all other kinds of labour, will effect results which 
no desultory efforts, however energetic, can obtain. 
Then, again, the habit of dictating instead of writing 
with my own hand, which I first attempted at the sug- 
gestion of Sir Walter Scott, relieves me of the manual 
labour which many authors have to undergo, leaves 
the mind clear and free to act, and affords facilities in- 
conceivable to those who have not tried, or, having 
tried, have not been able to attain it."* 

I am not convinced that the custom of dictating is one 
which should be observed by an author who aims at the 
highest excellence. 

In the accounts of his life and his work there are 
many discrepancies and contradictions. For example 
Mr. Allibone — who is not altogether trustworthy in de- 
tails — tells us that his first book was A Life of Ed- 
ward the Black Prince, published in 1822 ; but the Dic- 
tionary of National Biography ascribes that publication 
to the year 1836, and the Dictionary is undoubtedly 
right, for he said in 1835 "The Black Prince comes on 
but slowly. "f The Dictionary says that as "histori- 
ographer royal" — a sonorous title which must have af- 
forded great pleasure to its bearer — he published in 



*Works, Vol. I. xiv. 

fLetter to Cunningham, post, page- 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 147 

1839 a History of the United States Boundary Ques- 
tion, but Mr. Allibone insists that it was not his pro- 
duction. I have an autograph letter of James which, 
I think, warrants the belief that Allibone is wrong. The 
letter is a good example of his serious epistolary style. 

"Fair Oak Lodge, Petersfield 

Hants, 4th November, 1837. 
My Lord: — 

A few months previous to the death o>f his late Ma- 
jesty, he was pleased to appoint me Historiographer in 
ordinary for England into which office I was duly 
sworn. On the accession of Her Majesty our present 
Queen, although I was informed that the office did not 
necessarily lapse on the death of the monarch who con- 
ferred it, I applied to Her Majesty through her Lord 
Chamberlain for her gracious confirmation of the honor 
her Royal Uncle had conferred upon me. Many months 
have now elapsed even since Lord Conyngham did me 
the honor of writing to inform me that the time had not 
then arrived for Her Majesty to take into consideration 
that class of offices and I am induced in consequence to 
apply directly to your Lordship as I understand that 
your department of the government embraces such mat- 
ters. I should have waited longer ere I thus intruded 
upon your valuable time but that I am about to publish 
a new Historical work of some importance in the title 
to which must appear whether I am or am not still 
Historiographer. If I am to understand by the si- 
lence which has been maintained upon the subject that 
it is Her Majesty's determination to deprive me of the 
office which her royal uncle conferred I must bow to her 
gracious pleasure and neither my station in society, my 
fortune, or my views of what is right require or permit 
me to say one word to alter such a resolution. Should 
that determination however not have been formed allow 
me to submit to your Lordship that to dismiss me from 
a post to which I was so lately appointed is to cast a 
stigma of which I am not deserving. If I have ever 



i 4 8 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

written anything that is calculated to injure society; if 
I have ever debased my pen to pander to bad appetites 
of any kind; if I have ever failed to dedicate its efforts 
to the promotion of truth, virtue, and honor, not only 
let the dismissal be made public but the cause of that 
stigma be assigned. But if on the contrary to have 
done my best, and that perhaps with more reputation 
than my writings merit, to promote all that is good and 
noble; if to have bestowed vast labour, anxious re- 
search, valuable time, and many hundreds of pounds 
for which I can hope no return on such works as the 
History of Charlemagne, the History of Edward the 
Black Prince, the History of Chivalry, and my letters 
to Lord Brougham on the system of Education in the 
higher German States — if these circumstances afford 
any claim to honor or distinction, I think in my case they 
may stand in the way of an act which I cannot yet make 
up my mind to believe that Her Majesty's present min- 
isters would advise. I have given up the expectation 
indeed that a fair share of honors and distinctions — 
or in fact any share at all — should be bestowed upon 
literary men in this country, even when a high educa- 
tion, upright conduct, and a fortune not ill employed 
combine with literary reputation; but I still trust that 
that which has been given will not be taken away. 

I have now to apologize, my Lord — and I feel that 
an apology is very necessary — for addressing this letter 
to your private house; but your kindness and courtesy 
when, as a result of some communications between my 
friend Sir David Brewster and myself, I addressed you 
on the state of literature in England have encouraged 
me to trespass upon you in some manner. 

I have the honor to be, my Lord, your Lordship's 
most obedient servant 

G. P. R. James." 

I have not been able to discover what effect this letter 
had, but it is evident that the 'Historical work' was 
the pamphlet on the Boundary Question as I do not 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 149 

find a record of any other "historiographical" work to 
which the language of the letter is applicable. 

The Dictionary of National Biography credits James 
with Memoirs of Celebrated Women (three volumes, 
1837), but Allibone says that he had no share in it, 
further than writing a preface or "something of that 
kind." The Dictionary further informs us that "about 
1850 he was appointed British Consul for Massachu- 
setts" — an impossible office — and that he was trans- 
ferred to Norfolk, Virginia, in 1852, becoming Consul 
General at Venice in 1856. Allibone makes him Con- 
sul at Richmond, Virginia, in 1852 and Consul General 
at Venice in September, 1858. His friend Hall places 
him at Norfolk in 1852 and in Venice in 1859. Apple- 
ton's Cyclopaedia follows Allibone as to dates, but very 
properly ignores Richmond in favor of Norfolk. The 
Encyclopaedia Brittannica says that Irving encouraged 
him to produce the Life of the Black Prince in 1822 
(an evident error), sends him as "Consul to Rich- 
mond" in 1852 and transfers him to Venice in Septem- 
ber, 1858. The truth is that he went to Norfolk in 
1852, to Richmond in 1856, and to Venice in 1858. 
As we have seen, even the place of his interment is not 
without uncertainty. These variances in regard to the 
facts of his life are due to the comparative neglect which 
has befallen his memory. Perhaps they are not of much 
importance. Although he had numerous friends and 
acquaintances, none of them, except Mr. S. C. Hall and 
Maunsell B. Field, left anything approaching an 
account of his life, and even Mr. Hall's reminiscences 
are meagre and cursory, while Mr. Field's are largely 
apocryphal. 

He surely possessed the art of making friends. 
Before his marriage he knew not only Scott and Irving, 



1 5 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

but Byron, Leigh Hunt, and Walter Savage Landor, 
his friendship with Hunt and Landor continuing to the 
end of his life. Probably he never saw Shelley, but he 
admired greatly the writings of that radical enthusiast. 
He knew Thackeray, but did not like him; perhaps the 
parody galled him. He detested the brilliant, showy, 
shallow Count D'Orsay. His son says that he never 
heard his father speak of Dickens as if they had met.* 
"He fully acknowledged the power and versatility of 
Dickens's works, but there was something in them which 
did not please him. He had detected, if it is there — 
suspected, if it is not — the essential vulgarity which this 
master of pathos and humor is said to have shown those 
who came in personal contact with him." He had some 
acquaintance with Bulwer Lytton. "It is odd" remarks 
the younger James "but his tone towards this eminent 
author, who at some points (Richelieu and the historic 
novels) approached near enough his own line for ri- 
valry, was rather one of compassion. He knew the per- 
sonal and domestic sorrows of one whom unfriendly 
critics accused of soulless dandyism; and he seemed to 
have a sort of friendly feeling for that partially unsuc- 
cessful ambition which made the author of books as 
unlike as Pelham and Pausonias attempt so many things 
without reaching the highest rank in any." The Duke 
of Northumberland, the Duke of Wellington, Charles 
Lever, Thomas Campbell, and Allan Cunningham, 
were also friends. In America, he was known and well 
received by President Pierce, Hawthorne, Longfellow, 
Charles Sumner, Farragut, Barron, Henry A. Wise, 
Roger A. Pryor, John Tyler, Winder, General Scott, 
Edward Everett, Marcy, Caleb Cushing and a host of 



*Letter of C. L. James. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 151 

others. His gentle, modest nature, his cultivated taste, 
and his frank, pleasant ways seem to have attracted all 
who came within the circle of his friendship. He 
had much conversation with Marcy. Each had some 
idea of sounding the other diplomatically; both took 
snuff and neither proposed to be sounded. When James 
asked Marcy something which the latter did not choose 
to answer, Marcy would ask him for a pinch of snuff, 
and he readily perceived that this evasion was as good 
for two as for one. 

The late Donald G. Mitchell speaks of him as "an 
excellent, industrious man, who drove his trade of novel- 
making — as our engineers drive wells — with steam, and 
pistons, and borings, and everlasting clatter", adding 
that "what he might have done, with a modern type- 
writer at command, it is painful to imagine. But he 
gives us the best account I have seen of the personal ap- 
pearance of James. 

"I caught sight of this great necromancer of 'miniver 
furs,' and mantua-making chivalry — in youngish days, 
in the city of New York — where he was making a little 
over-ocean escape from the multitudinous work that 
flowed from him at home; a well-preserved man, of 
scarce fifty years, stout, erect, gray-haired, and with 
countenance blooming with mild uses of mild English 
ale — kindly, unctuous — showing no signs of deep 
thoughtfulness or of harassing toil. I looked him over, 
in boyish way, for traces of the court splendor I had 
gazed upon, under his ministrations, but saw none ; nor 
anything of the 'manly beauty of features, rendered 
scarcely less by a deep scar upon the forehead', nor 'of 
the gray cloth doublets slashed with purple;' a stanch 
honest, amiable, well-dressed Englishman. — that was 
all."* 



*English Lands, Letters and Kings, 284. 



152 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Mr. Mitchell surely did not expect to see Mr. James at- 
tired in armor, with a scarred face, because he wrote of 
armed knights, and his remarks certainly appear to be 
boyish in the extreme. But he atones for them by saying: 

"And yet, what delights he had conjured for us ! Shall 
we be ashamed to name them, or to confess it all ? Shall 
the modern show of new flowerets of fiction, and of 
lilies — forced to the front in January — make us forget 
utterly the old cinnamon roses, and the homely but fra- 
grant pinks, which once regaled and delighted us, in the 
April and May of our age?" 

Mr. Field says of him: "If he was sometimes a 
tedious writer, he was always the best story-teller that I 
ever listened to. He had known almost everybody in 
his own country, and he never forgot anything. The 
literary anecdotes alone which I have heard him relate 
would suffice to fill an ordinary volume. He was a big 
hearted man, too — tender, merciful, and full of relig- 
ious sentiment; a good husband, a devoted father, and 
a fast friend." Such is the testimony of all his acquaint- 
ances who have left any record of their impressions. 

It is not my purpose to present any critical study of 
James or of his works, but only to submit a few of his 
unpublished letters, in which his easy grace of style 
and his frank and simple nature are manifest; to give 
some of the contemporary estimates of him; and to re- 
call to the minds of readers of our own day a literary 
personality which should not be entirely forgotten. 

Among the good friends of James of whom I have 
spoken was that other novelist, almost as prolific in pro- 
duction, but better remembered by modern readers — 
Charles Lever. When the author of Charles O'M alley 
was the editor of the Dublin University Magazine, he 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 153 

wrote to a certain Reverend Edward Johnson, now 
wholly lost to fame, requesting him to contribute to the 
magazine and inviting him to visit the editor; but by 
mistake he addressed the letter to James. "Though he 
liked the man" says Mr. Fitzpatrick, "he rather pooh- 
poohed the stereotyped 'two cavaliers' of G. P. R. 
James, who of a fine autumnal day might be seen, etc."* 
Lever was too kind-hearted to explain the error, and 
James not only contributed to the magazine but visited 
Lever at Templeogue. The story "De Lunatico In- 
quirendo" was supposed to have been written by Lever, 
who wrote only the preface. "Arrah Neil" was pub- 
lished in the Magazine, a work which has peculiar mer- 
it and one character, Captain Barecolt, who is among 
James's best people. It is said that James abused Mc- 
Glashan for having "emasculated his jokes". "Where 
be they? as we used to say in the Catechism" was Lev- 
er's comment. One Major Dwyer, referred to in Fitz- 
patrick's Life of Lever, says: "Lever would some- 
times say that he wanted powder for his magazine. 'It 
is doubtful whether James's contributions' he said, 
'were James's powders at all, or merely that inferior 
substitute which the Pharmacopoeia condemns.' " Cham- 
ber's Cyclopaedia stated, twenty years before the death 
of James, that he was in the habit of dictating to 
minor scribes his thick-coming fancies. Mr. R. H. 
Home would have it that he always dictated his novels, 
but that was a very exaggerated statement. He dic- 
tated only at intervals. Major Dwyer tells of a novel 
composed by James at Baden, that "it was penned by an 
English artist who resided at Lichtenthal, and also spoke 
the purest South Devonian, and moreover wrote Eng- 



*Life of Lever, II. 21. 



i 5 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

lish nearly as he pronounced it. James's flowery- 
language thus rendered, was highly amusing; I had an 
opportunity of reading some pages of copy." 

In spite of his disparaging remarks, Lever was at- 
tached to the man himself, and we find the two romance- 
writers together in 1845, at Karlsruhe — where, as Mr. 
Downey says in his Life of Lever, "G. P. R. James 
and himself were the cynosure of all eyes" — and later 
at Baden. Lever dedicated to James his novel Roland 
Cashel, in 1849 — " a Roland for your Oliver, or rather 
for your Stepmother," said Lever, for James had dedi- 
cated to him the novel with that title in 1846. Soon 
afterwards, however, they became separated, as James 
went to the United States where he remained about eight 
years. One incident connected with the Dublin is worthy 
of remembrance. In Volume XXVII of the Magazine 
( 1846) appeared some verses beginning "A cloud is on 
the western sky." They were said to be "Lines by G. 
P. R. James" and were "prefaced by a note : 'My dear 

L , I send you the song you wished to have. The 

Americans totally forgot, when they so insolently cal- 
culated upon aid from Ireland in a war with England, 
that their own apple is rotten at the core. A nation 
with five or six million slaves who would go to war with 
an equally strong nation with no slaves is a mad people. 
Yours, G. P. R. James.' 'The Cloud,' (amongst other 
things not intended to be pleasant to Americans) 
called upon the dusky millions to 'shout,' and the author 
of the 'Lines' declared that Britain was ready to "draw 
the sword in the sacred cause of liberty." It was Lever's 
joke. Poor James had never heard of the poem until 
years later, in 1853, an attempt was made to drive 
him out of Norfolk, Virginia, because of it. "God 
forgive me" said Lever, "it was my doing." Lever de- 
clared that he had no more notion of James's 'powder* 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 155 

exciting a national animosity than that Holloway's 
Ointment could absorb a Swiss glacier.* The son says 
that during the first winter they spent in Norfolk there 
were no less than eight fires in the house, or in other 
parts of the block, which James attributed to deliberate 
attempts to burn him out on account of his supposed 
abolitionist views. 

Lever was Consul at Spezzia when James was in 
Venice, and they renewed their old intimacy. The 
younger James says that Lever was a very eccentric 
genius — a thorough specimen of the wild Irishman. 
Among his traits was chronic impecuniosity. Another 
was that he and all his family delighted in out-door life 
and could do everything athletic. "When he was at 
Venice he told us he was threatened with a visit from a 
British war vessel, which it would be his duty to receive 
in state, and (of course) he had no boat or other means 
of doing so with proper pomp. 'But,' he said, 'we can 
take the British flag in our mouth and swim out to meet 
her, singing Rule Britannia.' " 

Notwithstanding the manifestations of hostility by 
the good people of Norfolk, it may be remembered that 
when James was transferred to Venice, the Virginian 
poet, John R. Thompson, addressed to him some fare- 
well verses, published in the Southern Literary Messen- 
ger, beginning: 

Good bye ! they say the time is up — 

The "solitary horseman" leaves us, 
We'd like to take a "stirrup cup", 

Though much indeed the parting grieves us: 
We'd like to hear the glasses clink 

Around a board where none was tipsy, 
And with a hearty greeting drink 

This toast — The Author of the Gipsey! 



*Fitzpatrick's Life of Lever II. 418. 
11 



156 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

The same Major Dwyer relates at some length the 
conversations of the guests at Lever's home in Ireland. 
Speaking of a visit of Thackeray about 1842, he says: 
"James had been living at Brussels previously, and an 
intimacy had sprung up between Lever and him. Thack- 
eray's star was then barely peeping over the eastern 
horizon; Lever's had attained an altitude that rendered 
it clearly visible to the uncharmed eye, whilst James's 
had already passed its point of culmination, and was 
in its descending node." I do not know what the elo- 
quent Major meant by an "uncharmed eye," but his 
figures of speech are quite luxuriant. He does not think 
that Thackeray and James met at Lever's house, but 
he tells of a dinner there, where a Captain Siborne, 
Doctor Anster, and the Major were asked to meet 
James. It appears that after dinner, James took a very 
decided lead in the conversation on horsemanship and 
military tactics. "James" remarks the Major, "was 
not horsey looking; one would at first sight be inclined 
to set him down as an exception to the general rule, that 
'all Britons are born riders' ; he looked more like a sea- 
man than a soldier." This is deliciously fatuous — as if 
a man could not talk w r ell about horses unless he had a 
horsey look or drive fat oxen unless he himself were fat. 
It is like the Mitchell prattle about his having no 
scar and wearing no doublet. In talking about 
horses and riders, James evidently did not foresee 
that in the future his name would be so closely 
associated with "one horseman" or even two, threading 
romantic gorges. Perhaps it would have been better 
for his fame, if he had eschewed horsemen. "Why," 
continues the Major, "he should have selected two such 
topics puzzled both Siborne and myself, but I subse- 
quently found that James liked to seize upon and talk 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 157 

categorically about things which other individuals of 
the company present might be suspected of considering 
their own peculiar hobbies." This device for enliven- 
ing post-prandial dullness by stirring up solemn and 
conceited prigs is quite familiar, but it does not seem to 
have occurred to the Major that the clever novelist was 
making game of the two military magnates. He tells 
us further how Siborne declined "to discuss professional 
matters with a civilian," and closes his pompous and 
heavy remarks with this gem of concentrated wisdom: 
"James, so fond of horseflesh, finished his career as 
Consul General at Venice where the sight of a horse is 
never seen." I suppose that the Major would have 
considered it more fitting if James had selected some 
place to die in where 'the sight of a horse could be seen' 
at all times by merely looking out of the window. It is 
not difficult to imagine the joy with which the nimble- 
minded James put through their paces the heavy-witted 
and cumbrous Captain and Major at the pleasant din- 
ner-table of Charles Lever. It reminds me of an occa- 
sion when a sincere and simple-minded Briton under- 
took to engage in single combat with Mark Twain over 
a statement thrown out by the equally sincere and sim- 
ple-minded Clemens that the people of the Phillipine 
Islands had a perfect right to make arson and murder 
lawful if they considered it proper to incorporate in 
their constitution a provision to that effect. His power- 
ful arguments did not produce the slightest change in 
the convictions of Mr. Clemens. 

However severely the sapient compilers of Cham- 
bers' Cyclopaedia or the critics of our own generation 
may sneer at the novels — the fiction of the twentieth 
century being in the estimation of our contemporaries 
so vastly superior to all that has gone before — it is 



158 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

something to have had the approval of Christopher 
North, who was not given to bestowing lavish com- 
mendation upon the work of mere Englishmen. If you 
will take from the shelves the Nodes Ambrosianae, you 
will find these words : 

"North: Mr. Colburn has lately given us two books 
of a very different character, [from that of some pre- 
viously mentioned], Richelieu and Darnley — by Mr. 
James. Richelieu is one of the most spirited, amusing 
and interesting romances I ever read; characters well 
drawn — incidents well managed — story perpetually 
progressive — catastrophe at once natural and unex- 
pected — moral good, but not goody — and the whole 
felt, in every chapter, to be the work of a — gentleman. 

Shepherd: And what cy Darnley? 

North: Read and judge."* 

Edgar Allan Poe, who thought himself a critic while 
he was an original genius absolutely unfitted for just 
or accurate criticism, said that James was lauded from 
mere motives of duty, not of inclination — duty errone- 
ously conceived. "His sentiments are found to be pure," 
wrote Poe, "his morals unquestionable and pointedly 
shown forth — his language indisputably correct." But 
he calls him an indifferent imitator of Scott, accuses him 
of having little pretension to genius, and adds that we 
"seldom stumble across a novel emotion in the solemn 
tranquillity of his pages. "t Elsewhere Poe says: 
"James's multitudinous novels seem to be written upon 
the plan of the songs of the Bard of Schiraz, in which, 
we are assured by Fadladeen ; 'the same beautiful 



*Noctes Ambrosianae, II. 370 — Blackwood Edition, 
1887. 

fMarginalia, Black's Edition. — III. 393. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 159 

thought occurs again and again in every possible variety 
of phrase.' " This is perhaps, a fair comment upon the 
work of a writer who produced too many books. 

Samuel Carter Hall, who knew James well, and who 
gossips with garrulous freedom about everybody, speaks 
of him in an admiring way. After observing that very 
little was known of James's life, he says : "I knew him 
and esteemed him as an agreeable and kindly gentleman, 
somewhat handsome in person, and of very pleasant 
manners. He had the aspect, and indeed the character, 
that usually marks a man of sedentary occupations. His 
work all day long, and often into the night, must have 
been untiring, for he by no means drew exclusively on 
his fancy; he must have resorted much to books and 
have been a great reader, not only of English, but of 
continental histories; and he travelled a good deal in 
the countries in which the scenes of his historic fictions 
were principally laid. His novels have always been 
popular — they are so now, although many competitors 
for fame, with higher aims and perhaps loftier genius, 
have of late years supplied the circulating libraries. It 
was no light thing to run a race with Sir Walter Scott, 
and not to be altogether beaten out of the field. His 
great charm was the interest he created in relating a 
story, but he had masterly skill in delineating character, 
and in 'chivalric essays' none of his brethren surpassed 
him."* He gives to James more praise for character- 
drawing than most of the critics bestow. 

Hall quotes from Alison: "There is a constant 
appeal in his brilliant pages, not only to the pure and 
generous, but to the elevated and noble sentiments. He 
is imbued with the very soul of chivalry, and all his 



*Hall's Book of Memories, 263. 



160 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

stories turn on the final triumph of those who are influ- 
enced by such feelings. Not a word or a thought which 
can give pain to the purest heart ever escapes from his 
pen." 

The genial journalist, William Jerdan, in his Auto- 
biography, pays a deserved tribute to James. He says: 

"Among the warm friendships to which I may allude, 
there is not one more sincere, more lasting, or more 
grateful to my feeiings, than that which I have the 
honour and delight to couple with the admired and 
estimable name of G. P. R. James. I think it was the 
production of 'The Ruined City', for private circula- 
tion, which first introduced us to each other; and from 
that hour (I remember the pleasure I received from his 
volunteering a trial of his skill occasionally in the 
'Gazette') I now look back on a quarter of a century 
upon a close intercourse of minds and hearts without a 
passing shade to dull its bright and cheering continuity. 
I need not dwell on those voluminous writings which 
have placed Mr. James in the foremost rank of our 
national fictitious literature, nor need I, in his case, illus- 
trae my theme of the uncertainty of literature as a 
remunerative pursuit — with a private fortune, and the 
genius which has produced so many admirable works, 
the author has now fallen back upon a consulate at Nor- 
folk, in America, where, if report speaks truth, he is 
exposed even to danger in consequence of petty resent- 
ment against something he wrote long ago about Slav- 
ery! — but, I may say, from nearer and more abundant 
observation than the world could attain, that the utmost 
appreciation of his genius must fall short of what is 
due to his personal worth and nobility of nature. As 
no author ever excelled him in the purity and rectitude 
of his publications — every tone of which tends to inspire 
just moral sentiment, and exalted virtue, and brotherly 
love, and universal benevolence, and the improvement 
carrying with it the progress and happiness of his fellow 
creatures — so no man in private life ever more zealously 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 161 

practiced the precepts which he taught, and was charit- 
able, liberal, and generous, aye, beyond the measure of 
cold prudence, and without an atom of selfish reserve. 
To his fellow-labourers on the oft-ungrateful soil of 
letters, he was ever indulgent and munificent; and were 
this the fitting time, I could record acts of his perform- 
ing that would shed a lustre on any character, however 
celebrated in merited biographical panegyric. I trust I 
may state, without compromising the privacy of friendly 
confidence, that I knew him, as he was ever ready to 
make sacrifices to friendship, sacrifice half a fortune, 
legally in his possession, to a mere point of honorable, I 
might say, romantically honourable feeling, and 
founded indeed on one of those family romances in 
which we find fact more extraordinary than fiction ; and 
amongst lesser instances of his general sympathies for 
all who stood in need of succour, I may mention his pro- 
curing me the gratification of handing over £75 to the 
Literary Fund, as the price received from Messrs. Col- 
burn and Bentley for a manuscript entitled "The String 
of Pearls."* 

I have referred to the remark in Chambers' Cyclo- 
paedia about the custom of James to dictate to an aman- 
uensis, a custom he attempted to defend. The writers 
for this useful work, now rather antiquated, were quite 
given to the exercise of censorious judgment about 
authors who did not preserve their popularity. They 
say of James, however, that he was perhaps the best of 
the numerous imitators of Scott, and that if he had con- 
centrated his powers on a few congenial subjects or 
periods of history, and "resorted to the manual labor 
of penmanship as a drag-chain on the machine, he might 
have attained to the highest honors of this department 
of composition. As it is, he has furnished many light, 



*Jerdan's Autobiography, iv 210. 



i6i AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

agreeable and picturesque books, none of questionable 
tendency." The Cyclopaedia breaks into exclamation 
points when it chronicles the fact that the original works 
of Mr. James "extend to one hundred and eighty-nine 
volumes," and that he edited almost a dozen more. It 
then quotes from some unnamed critic whom it calls a 
"lively writer,"* and as I am endeavoring to present 
the contemporary estimates of James, I venture to 
reproduce the quotation : 

"There seems to be no limit to his ingenuity, his 
faculty of getting up scenes and incidents, dilemmas, 
artifices, contretemps, battles, skirmishes, disguises, 
escapes, trials, combats, adventures. He accumulates 
names, dresses, implements of war and peace, official 
retinues, and the whole paraphernalia of customs and 
costumes, with astounding alacrity. He appears to have 
exhausted every imaginable situation, and to have 
described every available article of attire on record. 
What he must have passed through — what triumphs 
he must have enjoyed — what exigencies he must have 
experienced — what love he must have suffered — what a 
grand wardrobe his brain must be ! He has made some 
poetical and dramatic efforts, but this irresistible ten- 
dency to pile up circumstantial particulars is fatal to 
those forms of art which demand intensity of passion. 
In stately narratives of chivalry and feudal grandeur, 
precision and reiteration are desirable rather than 
injurious — as we would have the most perfect accuracy 
and finish in a picture of ceremonials; and here Mr. 
James is supreme. One of his court romances is a book 
of brave sights and heraldic magnificence — it is the next 
thing to moving at our leisure through some superb and 
august procession." 



*It was R. H. Home. A New Spirit of the Age 
(1844) p. 136. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 163 

The lively writer has a style which displays the worst 
faults of the middle nineteenth century, but he is really 
not far wrong in his conclusions. The Cyclopaedia 
sums up the matter in a sentence which tells the story 
and signifies that the man wrote too much : 

"The sameness of the author's style and characters 
is, however, too marked to be pleasing." 

I timidly venture to suggest that the same thing may 
be true of Kipling and hope that I may not be annihi- 
lated by the bolts of Jupiter for such a daring piece of 
sacrilege. Having gone so far — but I will refrain from 
mentioning some other makers of novels with regard 
to whom the same fable might be narrated. 

We may easily understand that the accusation of 
"sameness" is one which is not very serious when pre- 
ferred against the author of nearly two hundred vol- 
umes. As iVllibone says, "he who composes a library 
is not to be judged by the same standard as he who 
writes but one book." We must remember that not 
only Professor Wilson, but Leigh Hunt, about whose 
taste and discrimination there can be no question, says 
of him : 

"I hail every fresh publication of James, though I 
half know what he is going to do with his lady, and his 
gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his 
orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed 
with the new amusement which he brings out of old 
materials. I look on him as I look on a musician 
famous for 'variations.' I am grateful for his vein of 
cheerfulness, for his singularly varied and vivid land- 
scapes, for his power of painting women at once lady- 
like and loving, (a rare talent,) for making lovers to 
match, at once beautiful and well-bred, and for the 
solace which all this has afforded me, sometimes over 
and over again in illness and in convalescence, when I 



1 64 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

required interest without violence, and entertainment 
at once animated and mild." 

Allan Cunningham, in his Biographical and Critical 
History of the Literature of the Last Fifty Years 
(1833) refers to his excellent taste, extensive knowl- 
edge of history, right feeling of the chivalrous, and 
heroic and ready eye for the picturesque, adding that 
his proprieties are admirable and his sympathy with 
whatever is high-souled and noble, deep and impres- 
sive. Cunningham was on terms of intimacy with him, 
as a number of letters from James addressed to him 
abundantly prove. The Edinburgh Review estimated 
highly his abilities as a romance-writer, declaring that 
his works were lively and interesting, and animated by 
a spirit of sound and healthy morality in feeling and 
of natural deliberation in character which should secure 
for them a calm popularity which would "last beyond 
the present day." 

He was not regarded so favorably by the London 
Athenaeun, which said of him: "The first and most 
obvious contrivance for the attainment of quantity, is, 
of course, dilution; but this recourse has practically its 
limit, and Mr. James had reached it long ago. Com- 
monplace in its best day, anything more feeble, vapid — 
sloppy in fact, (for we know not how to characterize 
this writer's style but by some of its own elegancies) — 
than Mr. James's manner has become, it were difficult 
to imagine. Every literary grace has been swamped in 
the spreading marasmus of his style."* 

The bewildered reader of reviews is often at a loss 
to reconcile the censure of one and the praise of another; 
and it was not very long before the appearance of this 
slashing article that the Dublin University Magazine 



* London Athenaeum, April 11, 1846. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 165 

had thus expressed its opinions: "His pen is prolific 
enough to keep the imagination constantly nourished; 
and of him, more than of any modern writer, it may be 
said, that he has improved his style by the mere dint of 
constant and abundant practice. For, although so agree- 
able a novelist, it must not be forgotten that he stands 
infinitely higher as an historian. * * * The most 
fantastic and beautiful coruscations which the skies can 
exhibit to the eyes of mankind dart as if in play from 
the huge volumes that roll out from the crater of the 
volcano. * * * The recreation of an enlarged 
intellect is ever more valuable than the highest efforts 
of a confined one. Hence we find in the works before 
us, lightly as they have been thrown off, the traces of 
study — the footsteps of a powerful and vigorous under- 
standing."* The works were Corse de Leon, The An- 
cient Regime, and The Jacquerie — none of them as de- 
serving as Richelieu, Henry Masterton, or Mary of 
Burgundy. James was a member of the Dublin staff 
and his friend Lever may have inspired the compli- 
ments. 

One more review may be noticed. Mr. E. P. Whip- 
ple, whose criticisms have not become immortal, evi- 
dently disapproved of James, and did not hesitate to 
say so. It is the old charge of sameness and overpro- 
duction. Whipple scored James in the North American 
Review of April, 1844. 

"He is a most scientific expositor of the fact that 
a man may be a maker of books without being a maker 
of thoughts; that he may be the reputed author of a 
hundred volumes and flood the market with his literary 
wares, and yet have very few ideas and principles for 



*Dublin University Magazine, March, 1842. 



i66 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

his stock in trade. For the last ten years he has been 
repeating his own repetitions and echoing his own 
echoes. His first novel was a shot that went through 
the target, and he has ever since been assiduously firing 
through the hole. * * * When a man has little 
or nothing to say, he should say it in the smallest space. 
He should not, at any rate, take up more room than 
suffices for a creative mind. He should not provoke 
hostility and petulance by the effrontery of his demands 
upon time and patience. He should let us off with a 
few volumes, and gain our gratitude for his benevo- 
lence, if not our praise for his talents."* 

Whipple's critiques are far more obsolete than 
James's novels; and a good deal of what he says of 
James is fairly applicable to his own essays. Even 
Whipple concedes the excellence of Richelieu, notwith- 
standing the fact that it did not emanate from New 
England. 

Back in the forties, there was a magazine, published 
in Philadelphia, known as Graham's American Monthly 
Magazine, in which the chief American writers of the 
day, including Poe, Bryant, Cooper, Longfellow, Wil- 
lis, and Lowell occasionally figured as contributors. It 
had its page of reviews and in the number of Novem- 
ber, 1848, it enlightened its readers with a disquisition 
on "Vanity Fair"; by W. M. Thackerway (sic), begin- 
ning "This is one of the most striking novels of the sea- 
son." If Lamb could only have met that reviewer, he 
surely would have danced about, as on a memora- 
ble occasion, singing "diddle, diddle dumpling, my son 
John" and endeavored to examine the reviewer's 
bumps. Graham (November, 1844) was very severe 
with poor James, in a notice of Arrah Neil. The re- 



: Essays and Reviews, ii, 116, 137. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 167 

viewer says : "In our opinion, there is hardly an instance 
on record of an author who has contrived to earn an 
extensive reputation as a writer of works of imagina- 
tion, with such slender intellectual materials as Mr. 
James. No one has ever written so many books, pur- 
porting to be novels, with so small a stock of heart, 
brain, and invention. He is continually infringing his 
own copyright, by reproducing his own novels. Far 
from being surprised that he has written so much, we 
are astonished that he has not written more. From his 
first novel, all the rest can be logically deduced ; and the 
reason that they have not appeared faster, may be 
found in the fact that he has been economical in the 
employment of amanuenses." More of this kind of 
talk is indulged in without a single word about the 
book itself or its merits; which proves quite clearly 
that the reviewer was merely following the path marked 
out by some other critic, and there is no evidence what- 
ever that he had ever read the work he was reviewing. 
Thus it is to-day; a parrot-cry of "diffuseness, dilution, 
re-copying, repetition," — so easy to proclaim, so difficult 
to answer, all born of the disposition of newspaper and 
magazine critics to accept the view which needs no exer- 
cise of brains to approve and to announce. It is not 
without significance that when James was in America, 
he was a contributor to this same magazine, which had 
scored him so unmercifully; for example, in the volume 
for 1 85 1 I find two stories by him — Christian Lacy, a 
Tale of the Salem Witchcraft, and Justinian and Theo- 
dora,' — as well as a rather graceful sonnet to Jenny 
Lind. 

James C. Derby mentions the fact that James was a 
friend of Philip Pendleton Cooke, the Virginian poet, 
and relates that Thackeray visited James when in the 



1 68 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

South, but that James "resented the latter's [Thack- 
eray's] flings at him as a 'solitary horseman', the mean- 
ing of which those who have read James's novels will 
understand. James once told Cooke of his intention to 
write his own memoirs — a purpose never fulfilled. In- 
cidentally, he told Cooke a story of Washington Irving, 
his early adviser, who amiably approved of his earliest 
essays in literature. It seems that James was in Bor- 
deaux, and after strolling all day, returned to his inn. 
On his way through a long, dark passage he saw some 
one in front carrying a candle, a man in black slowly 
ascending the old-fashioned staircase. On the landing 
the man stopped, and holding up his candle looked at 
a cat lying on the window-sill, regarding the gazer with 
a surprised and frightened expression. The stranger in 
black looked at the cat for some time mutely and then 
muttered sadly, 'Ah, pussy! pussy! If you had 
seen as much trouble as I have, you would not be sur- 
prised at anything.' After which he went on up the 
stairs,' said James, 'and as I heard that Irving was in 
Bordeaux, I said to myself : 'That can be nobody in the 
world but Irving', which turned out to be a fact.* 

Frederick Locker-Lampson visited Walter Savage 
Landor at Fiesole in the early sixties, and found him 
reading a Waverly novel. Lampson congratulated the 
old poet on having so pleasant a companion in his re- 
tirement, and Landor, with a winning dignity, replied: 
"Yes, and there is another novelist whom I equally ad- 
mire, my old friend [G. P. R.] James. "f Locker- 
Lampson does not seem to have shared Landor's appre- 
ciation of James. He says, later in his memoirs: "It is 



* Derby's Fifty Years Among Authors, etc. 405. 
fMy Confidences, 161. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 169 

a law of literature that every generation should be 
industrious in burying its own, especially novels. What 
has become of Smollett and Mackenzie — the cockpit 
of the 'Thunder' or the sentimental Harley? Where 
is the shadowy Mr. G. P. R. James and where is that 
witty old ghost of the Silver Fork school, Mrs. Gore? 
* * * Yet they all had vogue."* It is odd that 
almost every one, in speaking of James, recites his num- 
erous initials and bestows upon him the title of "Mr," 
which carries with it the suggestion of a sneer. 

In my small collection of Gladstone letters I find 
one addressed to James which shows not only that the 
statesman liked the books but that he and the author 
were on terms of some intimacy. 

"Whitehall, May 17, '43. 
My dear Sir: I thank you very much for your re' 
newed kindness. The perusal of your last work gave 
me very great pleasure, most of all (though that is but 
a very slender testimony in their favour) Evesham and 
Simon de Montfort, of whom I never had before an 
adequate conception. It is true I am adopted into the 
Cabinet, & will I fear be alleged as a proof of its pov- 
erty. In point of form I cannot succeed Lord Ripon 
until the Queen holds a Council.f The true and whole 
secret of the difficulty about Canada corn (and I do 
not mean that we can wonder at it) is, as I believe, that 
wheat, without great abundance, is at 46 / a quarter. 
I remain, my dear sir, 

Yours faithfully & obliged, 

W. E. Gladstone. 
G. P. R. James, Esq., 
The Shrubbery, 

Walmer. 



*My Confidences, 533, 534. 

fMr. Gladstone succeeded Lord Ripon as President 
of the Board of Trade and took his seat in the Cabinet 
on May 19, 1843. 



1 7 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Donald G. Mitchell, describing the little red cottage 
of Hawthorne, in the Berkshire hills, reminds us that 
among those who used to come a-visiting the great 
American romancer, was "G. P. R. James, that kindly- 
master of knights 'in gay caparison' ;" and elsewhere 
says that at the Cooper Memorial meeting in 
Metropolitan Hall, on February 25, 1852, where Web- 
ster, Bryant and Hawks paid their tribute to the author 
of the Leatherstocking tales, "Mr. G. P. R. James — 
then chancing to be a visitor in New York, — lent a 
little of his rambling heroics to the interest of the occa- 
sion."* I have before me the Memorial, printed by 
Putnam in 1852, containing a full report of the meet- 
ing, including the remarks of James, and I do not find 
anything which may fairly be called "heroics", rambling 
or otherwise. The speech was manifestly extempora- 
neous. He began by expressing his pride in being an 
Englishman, a romance writer, and a man of the people, 
and his pleasure in paying an humble tribute to an 
American romance writer and a man of the people. 
He praised the addresses of those who preceded him, 
corrected a trifling error of Bryant's in regard to a Mr. 
James, a surgeon, and declared that the proposed statue 
to Cooper was not merely to a novelist, but to a genius 
— to truth — to truth, genius and patriotism combined. 
He closed by urging all present to use every exertion to 
procure contributions for the purpose of erecting such a 
statue. To any unprejudiced mind, what James said 
was appropriate and dignified; well suited to the occa- 
sion; wholly natural and unaffected; and compared fav- 
orably, to say the least, with the dull and ponderous 
commonplaces of Daniel Webster who had the chair 



* American Lands and Letters, II — 252. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 171 

and who was singularly unfitted to preside over such a 
meeting. Of Webster's platitudes, Professor Louns- 
bury is quite contemptuous, remarking that the distin- 
guished orator "had nothing to say and said it wretch- 
edly."* I believe that the projected statue was never 
built. James was evidently a favorite dinner-speaker. 
It is pleasant to know that he spoke at a 'printer's ban- 
quet' in New York in the latter part of 1850, and that 
he paid a well-merited tribute to a man destined to 
become a distinguished figure in literature. Bayard 
Taylor, writing to his friend George H. Boker, on 
January 1, 185 1, says: "By the bye, James paid me a 
very elegant compliment, in his speech at the 'printer's 
banquet' the other night, referring to me as the best 
landscape painter in words that he had ever known. 
This is something from an Englishman."! He always 
said kind and appreciative words about his fellow- 
authors, if they were deserving. 

Returning to the Hawthorne cottage, Julian Haw- 
thorne gives a brief account of one of the visits of 
James, who, it appears, was living near by during the 
summer of 185 1. As the narrator was five years old at 
the time of this visit, his estimate of the visitors must 
have been founded upon something other than his per- 
sonal observation. He says: 

"James was a commonplace, meritorious person, with 
much blameless and intelligent conversation, but the 
only thing that recalls him personally to my memory is 
the fact of his being associated with a furious thunder- 
storm." 



*Life of Cooper, 268. 

fLife and Letters of Bayard Taylor, I, 203. 

18 



172 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

He relates how the storm raged and how the door 
burst open, — his father and he were alone in the cot- 
tage — 

"and behold! of all persons in the world — to be her- 
alded by such circumstances — G. P. R. James ! Not he 
only, but close upon his heels his entire family, numer- 
ous, orthodox, admirable, and infinitely undesirable to 
two secluded gentlemen without a wife and mother to 
help them out. * * * They dripped on the car- 
pet, they were conventional and courteous; we made 
conversation between us but whenever the thunder 
rolled, Mrs. James became ghastly pale. Mr. James 
explained that this was his birthday, and that they were 
on a pleasure excursion. He conciliated me by anec- 
dotes of a pet magpie, or raven, who stole spoons. At 
last the thunderstorm and the G. P. R. Jameses passed 
off together.* 

It is not uninteresting to compare this rather patron- 
izing and supercilious narration of a trivial incident 
with that which is given in his own Journal by the fath- 
er of this precocious young gentleman of five years; and 
it is probably the fact that the story was related by the 
son not from his own memory but from the record of 
the Journal, reproduced in "Nathaniel Hawthorne and 
his Wife," by Julian Hawthorne. f Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne evidently liked James. Under date of July 30, 
185 1, he says: 

"We walked to the village for the mail, and on our 
way back we met a wagon in which sat Mr. G. P. R. 
James, his wife and daughter, who had just left their 
cards at our house. Here ensued a talk, quite pleas*- 

*Hawthorne and his Circle, 33, 34. 
tVol. I, 422-423. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 173 

ant and friendly. He is certainly an excellent man ; and 
his wife is a plain, good, friendly, kind-hearted woman, 
and his daughter a nice girl. Mr. James spoke of 'The 
House of the Seven Gables' and of 'Twice-Told Tales,' 
and then branched off upon English literature gener- 
ally."* The acquaintance between the two authors must 
have been deemed to be of advantage to both, for the 
supercilious Master Julian takes care to present in full 
a note of invitation addressed by James to the elder 
Hawthorne asking the latter 'with his two young peo- 
ple' to visit him, saying: "We are going to have a lit- 
tle haymaking after the olden fashion, and a syllabub 
under the cow; hoping not to be disturbed by any of 
your grim old Puritans, as were the poor folks of Mer- 
rymount. By the way, you do not do yourself justice at 
all in your preface to the 'Twice-Told Tales,' — but 
more on that subject anon."f 

Under the date of August 9, 1851, Hawthorne gives 
his own version of the thunderstorm episode, in marked 
contrast with the condescending remarks of his hopeful 
son. It reveals the difference between parent and child. 

"The rain was pouring down," says Hawthorne 
senior, "and from all the hillsides mists were steaming 
up, and Monument Mountain seemed to be enveloped 
as if in the smoke of a great battle. During one of the 
heaviest showers of the day there was a succession of 
thundering knocks at the front door. On opening it, 
there was a young man on the doorstep, and a carriage 
at the gate, and Mr. James thrusting his head out of 
the carriage window, and beseeching shelter from the 
storm ! So here was an invasion. Mr. and Mrs. James, 
their eldest son, their daughter, their little son Charles, 



*Hawthorne and his Wife, I. 415. 
W 397> 398. 



i 7 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

their maid-servant, and their coachman; — not that the 
coachman came in; and as for the maid, she stayed in 
the hall.* Dear me! where was Phoebe in this time 
of need? All taken aback as I was, I made the best of 
it. Julian helped me somewhat, but not much. Little 
Charley is a few months younger than he, and between 
them they at least furnished subject for remark. Mrs. 
James, luckily, happened to be very much afraid of 
thunder and lightning; and as these were loud and 
sharp, she might be considered hors de combat. The 
son, who seemed to be about twenty, and the daughter, 
of seventeen or eighteen, took the part of saying noth- 
ing, which I suppose is the English fashion as regards 
such striplings. So Mr. James was the only one to 
whom it was necessary to talk, and we got along tol- 
erably well. He said that this was his birthday, and 
that he was keeping it by a pleasure excursion, and that 
therefore the rain was a matter of course. t We talked 
of periodicals, English and American, and of the Puri- 
tans, about whom we agreed pretty well in our opinions; 
and Mr. James told how he had recently been thrown 
out of his wagon, and how the horse ran away with 
Mrs. James; and we talked about green lizards and 
red ones. And Mr. James told Julian how, when he 
was a child, he had twelve owls at the same time; and, 
at another time, a raven, who used to steal silver spoons 
and money. He also mentioned a squirrel, and several 
other pets; and Julian laughed most obstreperously. 
As to little Charles, he was much interested with Bun- 
ny (who had been returned to us from the Tappans, 
somewhat the worse for wear), and likewise with the 
rocking-horse, which luckily happened to be in the sit- 
ting-room. He examined the horse most critically, and 
finally got upon his back, but did not show himself quite 
as good a rider as Julian. Our old boy hardly said a 



*A little bit snobbish for a Hawthorne, is it not? 

fObserve how Mr. Julian Hawthorne wholly omits 
the point of the observation about the pleasure excur- 
sion. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 175 

word. Finally the shower passed over, and the inva- 
ders passed away; and I do hope that on the next oc- 
casion of the kind my wife will be there to see."* 

I give the story in full, not only because of its rela- 
tion to James and his family, but for its revelation of 
Hawthorne himself; the little touch of parental pride 
is amusing as well as affecting. What Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne thought of James in those days is far more im- 
portant than what Julian Hawthorne thinks of him now. 

Mr. Charles L. James writes to me : 

"Yes, I have read Hawthorne's account of our visit 
in a thunderstorm; and what is more, I remember the 
occurrence. I was little Charley, whom he mentions. 
I remember not only getting upon Julian's rocking- 
horse, but pulling out his tail and being aghast at what 
I had done, for I did not possess a wooden horse and 
it had not occurred to me that the tail was movable." 

I am glad that Charles pulled out that tail ; perhaps 
the memory of the outrage inspired the owner of the 
steed when he wrote his little story. 

Longfellow regarded James with a degree of kind- 
ness and esteem quite comparable to that with which 
Hawthorne looked upon him. In his Journal for Sep- 
tember 17, 1850, he says, after mentioning several vis- 
itors: "Then Fields, with G. P. R. James, the novelist, 
and his son. He is a sturdy man, fluent and rapid, and 
looking quite capable of fifty more novels. "f Later, on 
November 17, he says: "James, the novelist, came out 
to dinner with Sumner. He is a manly, middle-aged 
man, tirant sur le grison, as Lafontaine has it, with a 



*Life of Hawthorne and his Wife, I. 422-424. 
fLife of H. W. Longfellow, by Stephen Longfel- 
low, II. 177. 



i 7 6 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

gray mustache; very frank, off-hand, and agreeable. 
In politics he is a Tory, and very conservative."* James 
certainly had no reason to complain of his reception by 
the best of our own literary men of that day. 

It is an evidence of the fact that James was admired 
and his ability appreciated by other authors, that he 
was suspected by no less a person than William Harri- 
son Ainsworth of being the writer of Jane Eyre. I 
have before me an autograph letter from Ainsworth to 
James (November 14, 1849), m which he says: "Any- 
thing I can do for you at any time you know you may 
command, and I shall only be too happy in the oppor- 
tunity of making kindly mention in the N. M. M. of 
your Dark Scenes of History. The times are not pro- 
pitious to us veterans and literature generally has within 
the last two years suffered a tremendous depreciation. 

* * * Do you know I took it into my head that 
you were the author of 'Jane Eyre,' but I have altered 
my opinions since I read a portion of 'Shirley.' Currer 
Bell, whoever he or she may be, has certainly got some 
of your 'trick' * * * but 'Shirley' has again per- 
plexed me." 

Robert Louis Stevenson had a modified fondness for 
James, which is expressed in a letter written by him from 
Saranac, February, 1888, to E. L. Burlingame. He 
says: 

"Will you send me (from the library) some of the 
works of my dear old G. P. R. James? With the fol- 
lowing especially I desire to make or to renew acquaint- 
ance : The Songster, The Gipsey, The Convict, The 
Stepmother, The Gentleman of the Old School, The 
Robber. Excusez du peu. This sudden return to an 

*Id, 182. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 177 

ancient favourite hangs upon an accident. The Frank- 
lin County Library contains two works of his, The Cav- 
alier and Morley Ernstein. I read the first with indes- 
cribable amusement — it was worse than I had feared, 
and yet somehow engaging; the second (to my sur- 
prise) was better than I had dared to hope; a good, 
honest, dull, interesting tale, with a genuine old-fash- 
ioned talent in the invention when not strained, and a 
genuine old-fashioned feeling for the English language. 
This experience awoke appetite, and you see I have 
taken steps to stay it. 

R. L. S." 

I have a number of holograph letters of James, some 
of which show his pleasant ways and attractive play- 
fulness. They constitute the raison d' etre of this com- 
mentary and so I will not apologize for giving them 
almost in full. He speaks for himself far better than I 
can speak for him. He was surely not a Siborne or a 
Major Dwyer. To my mind these letters reveal the 
man, and they tell of an honest, genial man who was 
able to write. 

He writes to C. W. H. Ranken, at Bristol, thus : 

Rennes, 16 January, 1826. 
Rankeno amico carissimo: 

That unfortunate Gentleman upon whose back all the 
evils of this world have been laid from time immemo- 
rial, I mean the Devil, has certainly (to give him his 
due) been tormenting my poor friend and schoolfellow 
pretty handsomely. What with your cough in the first 
place and your abscess in the second you have been quite 
a martyr, but remember the martyrs always reach heav- 
en at last and I doubt not that your sufferings will soon 
be over and that in the little Paradise you have planned 
for yourself some five or six miles from London (rath- 
er a cockney distance by the by) you will enjoy the 
happiness of the blest with those you love best. I think I 



178 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

shall make the same compact with you that I have 
made with Becknell namely that in after years when 
time has laid his heavy hand upon us all and when you 
are happy in your children and your children's children 
you will still give the crusty old Bachelor a place at your 
fireside and your Sophia shall furnish me with strong 
green tea and I will take my pinch of snuff and tell you 
Graddam's tales to amuse the little ones or recount the 
wonderful things I have seen in my travels or growl at 
the degeneracy of the world and praise the good old 
days when I was young and gay and did many a won- 
drous deed for "Ladye love and pride of Chivalrie" 
and you shall forgive many a cross word and ill tem- 
pered remark for old friendship's sake and say "He was 
not always so but this world's sorrows have soured his 
temper, poor old Man." 

You tell me to continue my history of Bretagne, but 
in sooth I know not where I left off. Memory, that 
lazy slut, has forgot to mend her pocket which has had 
a hole in it for some time and the consequence is that, 
of all I give her to keep for me, the dross alone remains 
and the better part is dropped by the wayside. But I 
am not at all in the mood to give any descriptions. I 
am philosophical and therefore will tell you a story. 

In that mighty empire which exceeds all others as 
much in wisdom as it does in size — in the time of Fo 
Whang, who was the six hundredth emperor of the 
ninety-seventh dynasty which has sat on the throne of 
Cathay, there lived a philosopher whose doctrine was 
such that every Chinese from the mandarin who enjoys 
the light of the celestial presence to the waterman who 
paddles his Junk in the river of Canton became prose- 
lytes. 

Every one knows that every Chinese from generation 
to generation is in manners, customs, dress, and appear- 
ance so precisely what his father was before him that 
a certain Mandarin who had thought proper to fall into 
a trance for a century or so, waking from his sleep and 
entering his paternal mansion, found his great grandson, 
who was at dinner, so strikingly like himself that he 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 179 

was struck dumb with astonishment. There were the 
same wide thin eye-brows, there were the same beauti- 
ful black eyes no bigger than peas, there was the same 
delicate tea-colored complexion. He wore the same 
silk his ancestor had worn and the same chopsticks car- 
ried his food to his mouth. The Great Grandson in- 
stantly recognized his predecessor, but the resuscitated 
Mandarin, forgetting the lapse of years, mistook his 
descendant for his own grandfather and each casting 
themselves on their belly wriggled towards each other 
with all symptoms of respect. Such being the lauda- 
ble reverence of this people for all customs sanctified 
by time, it may be well supposed that that doctrine was 
magnificent which could take a Chinese by the ear, and 
such indeed was the doctrine of the Philosopher, name- 
ly, that wisdom is folly and folly is wisdom. Which he 
proved thus: "The end of wisdom" said the Philoso- 
pher, "is to be happy. And the fewer are our wants 
the fewer can be our disappointments and consequently 
the happier we are. The fool has fewer wants than the 
wise man and the ignorant less wishes than the learned, 
and therefore the fool being the happiest is the wisest 
and the wise man is but a fool." Now the wise men 
(even in China) being lamentably in the minority the 
Philosopher had all the voices for himself. Now there 
was a young Man named To-hi, who never pretended to 
be a wise man but was nevertheless not a fool, and go- 
ing to the Philosopher he said to him — "Father, I can- 
not help thinking that your doctrine means more than 
it appears to mean and I think I have found its explica- 
tion." "Speak freely, my Son" replied the Philosopher, 
"and tell me what you suppose it to be." "I imagine," 
said To-hi, "that you wish to inculcate that Men seek 
for wisdom above their power and destroy their happi- 
ness by examining too near the objects which produce it. 
For I remark that all that is beautiful in nature as well 
as in life is little better than a delusion which to be en- 
joyed must be seen from a distance. When I look at 
the hills of Tartary, they seem from here grand and 
soft and blue and changing all sorts of colors from the 



180 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

reflection of the Sun, but when I approach them I find 
nothing but heaps of barren rocks and frightful deserts. 
If we regard the finest skin with a magnifying glass, it 
is like coarsest cloth of Surat and the sunset that we ad- 
mire for its soft splendor to the nations on the edge of 
the horizon is but the glare of midday. Thus then we 
ought to enjoy whatever the world offers us without 
searching for faults and be as happy as we can without 
seeking to be too wise. Is not this what you meant?" 
"My Son," replied the Philosopher "like many other 
Philosophers I did not well know what I meant and you, 
like many other commentators, have given an explana- 
don which the author never intended." 

Rennes, first of Feby. 

As you will see, my Dear Ranken, this letter has been 
written half a century but I have been wandering about 
the country and forgot to finish it before I went. Long 
before this however I hope you are fundamentally 
cured and prepared to set up on your own bottom. 
Doubtless you will find a vast fund of nonsense in the 
former part of this 'pistle but if it serves to give you a 
minute's amusement it will answer the object of 
Yours sincerely 

G. P. R. James. 

Everybody seems to have written affectionately to 
Charles Oilier, the publisher — Lamb, Hunt, Keats, Shel- 
ley, and a host of others. His son, Edmund, 'beheld 
Charles Lamb with infantile eyes and sat in poor Mary 
Lamb's lap.'* James writes to the elder Oilier, from 
the Chateau du Buisson, Garumbourg, pres Evreux, on 
August 7, 1829: 

"My dear Mr. Ollier. 

I take advantage of a friend's departure for London, 
to write to you though I have nothing to say. I have 



Charles Ollier, 1788-1859. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 181 

done so much of my new book as I permit myself to do 
per diem and having nothing else to do my vile cacoethes 
scribendi prompts me to indite this epistle to your man- 
ifest trouble and annoyance. My father informs me 
you have been ill and calls your complaint 'nothing but 
Dis-pep-sia.' I hope and trust however that you have no 
such long word in your stomach, but if you have, noth- 
ing can be so good for it as crossing the water and vis- 
iting a friend in France. One of my visitors lately 
brought me over about twenty newspapers and also the 
information that my unfortunate Adra had never made 
her appearance. Incontinent, I fell into one of my ac- 
customed fits of passion which was greatly increased by 
finding that in none of the twenty journals was any ad- 
vertisement or mention whatever of Richelieu which to- 
gether with the news that about four and twenty peo- 
ple had asked for Richelieu and could not get it in Eng- 
land, Scotland or Ireland, made me write instantly to 
Mr. Bentley a very flaming letter about printing Adra 
&c. &c. &c. I had written to Mr. Colburn sometime 
ago without his doing me the honor to answer me, and 
therefore I write not there again. I have since received 
an answer from Mr. R. Bentley and all has gone right. 
But I am most profanely ignorant of all news and 
therefore will beg you to answer me the following Qys. 
if you can. 

Has Richelieu been reviewed in the New Monthly? 
Has it ever been advertized? Does the sale proceed 
as successfully as when I left London? Will you see 
that its first success does not make Mr. Colburn relax in 
his efforts in its favor? Will you manage the reviewing 
of Adra and take care that it be sent to and noticed by 
as many publications as possible? Will you see that 
the list of persons to whom I desired it to be sent and 
which I left in Burlington street be attended to ? Will 
you let me know whether there be anything in which 
I can in any way serve or pleasure you? I am sincere 
and ever yours. 

G. P. R. James. 



182 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

This letter dated at Maxpoffle, near Melrose, Rox- 
burghshire, 14th June 1832, is addressed to Allan Cun- 
ningham. 

My Dear Sir: 

When you were in this country last year, I told you 
not to forget me ; and you promised that you would not ; 
yet I doubt not that when you see the signature to this, 
memory will have much ado to call up the person who 
writes. Nevertheless I cannot forbear — even at the dis- 
tance of time which has since elapsed, and the distance 
of space which intervenes — from telling you how much 
delighted I have been with your Maid of Elnar. I 
have not seen the whole ; but various passages in various 
reviews, have shown me so much surpassing beauty, that 
I do not wait even till I have been delighted with the 
whole, to tell you how great has been the pleasure I 
have felt from a part. 

I do not know very well how or why, but I have been 
lately sickening of poetry; and though once as great a 
dreamer as ever felt the sweet music of imagination in 
his heart of hearts, within the last four or five years I 
have found it all flat, stale, and unprofitable; and be- 
gan to fancy myself a devout adorer of dull prose. I 
thank you then for showing me that there is still such 
a thing as poetry; and it would not at all surprise me 
to feel myself — after reading the Maid of Elnar 
through — taking the top of the wave, and going over 
every poet again from Chaucer to Byron. Can you tell 
me what it is that causes such a strange revolution in 
tastes ? I declare for the last five years since the Byron 
mania was upon me, I have looked upon poetry as the 
most sappy, senseless misapplication of good words, that 
ever the whimsical folly of the universal fool, mankind, 
devised. A spark or two of the old faggot was re- 
kindled in my heart about six weeks ago, by hearing 
a sonnet of Wordsworth's read aloud; and that I be- 
lieve induced me to read the extracts from your book; 
and now I am all ablaze. What I like in the various 
scattered passages of the Maid of Elnar, would be end- 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 183 

less to tell without writing a review ; but there is some- 
thing throughout the whole which has enchanted me — 
a mingling of the fine spirit of old chivalry, with the 
sweet home feeling of calm happy nature that is some- 
thing newer than even Spenser. As Oliver Cromwell 
used to say, I would say something — Ay verily — but I 
won't for fear you should think me exaggerating and 
therefore I will bid you farewell. It is natural of 
course for me to hate you; for every author is bound 
to detest any other person who writes what is good. I 
would therefore fain pay you that compliment, but your 
book will not let me; and I must beg you to believe 
me 

Ever yours most truly 

G. P. R. James. 

I send this to your Bookseller, because I do not know 
where else to send it; and I pay it, because many a 
good wholesome letter which has been addressed to the 
care of mine, has never reached me for want of that 
precaution on the part of my correspondents. Before 
the letter reaches you, I shall have got and read the 
whole book; and by heaven, if the rest does not come 
up to the extracts, I shall either lampoon you or your 
critics. 

Another letter to Cunningham follows : 

Maxpoffle Near Melrose Roxburghshire 

17th May 1833. 
My Dear Friend, 

To show you how little the fault that you notice is 
attributable to myself, I have only to tell you that I 
could not get a copy of Mary of Burgundy till three 
days after you had received it and my sister in law 
writes to Mrs. James, by the post that brought your 
letter, that although she had ordered the book through 
her own bookseller, she has not yet been able to get 
it, while friends of hers have obtained it at the circu- 



1 84 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

lating libraries. Not having lived in London for many 
years, I am quite unacquainted with all the ins and outs 
of these affairs and do not even know who is the Editor 
of the Athenaeum; but I think it somewhat hard meas- 
ure on his part to make an author pay for the sins of 
his Bookseller and very different indeed from the usual 
liberal spirit that I have seen in his paper. 

However, I never courted a Journalist in my life and 
although I know that I have suffered greatly on this 
account, yet I shall pursue the same plan; and only by 
endeavoring to make my works better than they have 
been, force all honest writers to give them their due 
share whatever it may be. At the same time I will en- 
deavour as far as in me lies to prevent any such in- 
stances of neglect as those of which you complain tak- 
ing place for the future, especially in regard to a paper 
which deserves so well of the public. Having done so, 
whatever be the result the Editor must "tak his wull 
o't, as the cat did o' the haggis." I never re- 
ply to criticism unless it be very absurd which is 
not likely to be the case with his; so let him "pour on, 
I will endure." 

In regard to the String of Pearls I not only begged 
a copy to be sent to you before any one else; I wrote 
you a long letter to be sent with it; but this is only one 
out of the many shameful pieces of negligence which 
Mr. Bentley has shown in my affairs. 

I trust that the Editor of the Athenaeum got a copy 
of Mary of Burgundy independent of that sent to you 
for I wish it clearly to be understood that I send you my 
leather and prunella, as a man for whom I have a high 
admiration and esteem, and not at all as a critic. When 
you get them, review them yourself, let others review, 
praise, abuse them, or let others abuse them as you find 
need; but still receive them as a mark of regard from 
me; and be sure that nothing you can say of them will 
diminish that regard. Whenever I have any one of 
them for which I wish a little lenity I will write you 
a note with it and tax your friendship upon the occa- 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 185 

sion; but still exculpate me in your own generous mind 
and plead my exculpation to others, of all intriguing 
to gain undue celebrity for my works or of dabbling 
with literary coteries. I give in to my bookseller a list 
of my friends — amongst whom your name stands high 
and I leave all the rest to him. For the String of 
Pearls I was anxious both because it was given to a char- 
ity and because I was afraid the Publisher might lose 
by it; but this as far as I can remember is the only 
book for which I ever asked a review. 

Thanks however, many thanks, for your critique in 
the Athenaeum which is calculated to do my book much 
good and is much more favorable than it deserves. Of 
your light censure I will speak to you when we meet 
which I am happy to say will be soon — at least I trust 
soon. On the twenty-eighth we leave this place for 
London on our way to Germany and Italy. My liver 
and stomach have become so deranged of late that I 
find it necessary to put myself under the hands of a 
physician whose prescription is an agreeable one. "Take 
the waters of Ems for two seasons and spend the inter- 
mediate time in traveling through Italy." This plan 
I am about to pursue, and in our way we shall spend a 
month in London when I will find you out. 

The country round us is lovely at present. After a 
cold lingering spring, summer has set in, in all its 
radiance and the world has burst at once into green 
beauty. You cannot fancy how lovely the Cheviots 
looked yesterday evening, as Mrs. James and I rode 
over the shoulder of the Eildons. The sky was full of 
the broken fragments of a past thunder storm and the 
lights and shadows were soft, superb and dreamlike. I 
know I may rave about beautiful scenery to you with- 
out fear or compunction for the Maid of Elnar made 
me know that you love it as well as 
My Dear Allan, 

Ever yours truly, 

G. P. R. James. 

P. S. — I have not yet got your last volume but if it 



1 86 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

be as good as its predecessors you will have no occasion 
to whip your Genius. 

He writes again to Cunningham : 

10 July, 1835. 
1 Lloyds Place, Blackheath. 
My Dear Friend: 

A thousand thanks for your kind letter and all the 
kind things it contains. I am glad that you like my 
friend the Gipsey, because your approval is worth much 
and though I think it tolerable myself, yet I have at- 
tributed a great part of its sucecss to the name. In 
answer to the question you put, I do not think he was 
drowned; but I do not know with certainty. I have 
told all I do know and farther this deponent sayeth not. 
I have long been thinking of writing to you to tell you 
that the name of Chaucer appears in the Scroop and 
Grosvenor roll in the year 1386 but all that I dare say 
you know. The best sketch of the real events of Chau- 
cer's life is certainly that in Sir H. Nicholas' comments 
on that roll, Vol. II., page 404, wherein he probably 
states all that can be learned with certainty of his life 
and proceedings. I tell you all this, although I dare 
say you are already acquainted with it because you asked 
me if I found any thing concerning our poet to let you 
know. The Black Prince comes on but slowly. So much 
examination and research is necessary that it is a most 
laborious and very expensive work. It has already cost 
me in journeys, transcriptions, books, MSS., &c, many 
hundred pounds without at all calculating my individual 
labour and do you know, my dear Allan, what I expect 
as my reward. Clear loss; and two or three reviews 
written by ignorant blockheads upon a subject they do 
not understand, for the purpose of damning a work 
which throws some new light upon English History. I 
am very much out of spirits in regard to historical liter- 
ature and though I would willingly devote my time and 
even my money to elucidate the dark points of our own 
history yet encouragement from the public is small and 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 187 

from the Government does not exist, so that I lay down 
the pen in despair of ever seeing English history any 
thing but what it is — a farago of falsehoods and hypo- 
theses covered over with the tinsel of specious reasoning 
from wrong data. And so you tell Lord Melbourne 
when you see him. But to speak of a personage, you 
are more likely to see namely Mr. Chantry. There is a 
bust which I wish him very much to see and wish you 
would take a look at it first as I have not seen the orig- 
inal myself. I have a cast of it given me by my Banker 
at Florence, to whom the original belongs, and if the 
head be equal to the cast it is the most beautiful antique 
I have ever seen. It is to be seen at Mr. Brown's in 
University Street, Gower Street marble works. Ask 
to see the antique head belonging to Mr. Johnstone and 
write me but three lines to tell me what you think of it. 
He paid, I believe, two hundred pounds for it and 
would take I believe three or four. If it be as I think,, 
it (pedestal and all) is worth double. 

Yours ever with best Compliments to your family 

G. P. R. James 

Excuse a scrawl but I am not very well. 

1 Lloyds Place, Blackheath 
5th Deer 1835 

My Dear Allan, — I have sent you a book and have 
ten times the pleasure in sending you one now that ever 
I had, because I hear you have detached yourself from 
all reviews. Heaven be praised therefor; for now you 
can sit down quietly by your own ingle nook and pick 
out all that is good — if there be any — in my One in a 
Thousand and palate it all, without the prospect, the 
damning prospect, of a broad sheet and small print 
before your eyes, and without wracking your honest 
brain to find out any small glimmerings of wit and 
wisdom in your friend's book in order to set it forth as 
fairly as may be to the carping world. 

By the way, I thought you were honest and true; 
and yet you have deceived me wofully. You promised 
to come down to Blackheath and you have not appeared. 

13 



1 88 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

I have been writing night and day or I should have 
presented myself to call you to account. Will you come 
down even yet, and take a family dinner with me? 
Any Sunday at five you will be sure to find me but if you 
come on another day, let me have a day's notice by 
post, lest I be engaged, which would be a great disap- 
pointment to 

Yours ever truly, 

G. P. R. James 

He always wrote frankly and freely to Cunningham. 
This letter deals with Attila. 

The Cottage, Great Marlow, Bucks, 
15th April 1837 
My Dear Allan, 

Many thanks for your letter and kind words upon 
Attila. I do believe that he is a good fellow, at all 
events he is very successful in society and though there 
are not as you well know twenty people in London 
who know who Attila was, he is as well received, I 
understand, as if he had the entree. Conjectures as to 
who Attila was are various in the well informed circles 
of the Metropolis, and ever since the book was adver- 
tised two principal opinions have prevailed, some peo- 
ple maintaining that He, Attila, was Platoff; others 
asserting that he was a Lady, first cousin to Boru the 
Backswoodsman, and the heroine of a romance by 
Chateaubriand. This may look like a joke, but I can 
assure you, it is a fact and that out of one hundred 
people of the highest rank in Europe you will not find 
five who know who Attila was; setting aside the 
groveling animals who, as the Duke of Somerset says, 
addict themselves to Literature. 

I am very sorry to hear you say that these well in- 
formed and enlightened times have not done justice to 
your romances. I'll tell you one great fault they have, 
which is probably that which prevents the world from 
liking them as much as it should do : they have too 
much poetry in them, Allan, one and all from Michael 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 189. 

Scott to Lord Roldan. But you must not expect to suc- 
ceed in all walks of art. You are a lyric poet and a biog- 
rapher; how can you expect that the critics would ever 
let you come near romances. No, no ; they feel it their 
bounden duty to smother all such efforts of your genius 
and they fulfil that duty with laudable zeal. Did you 
see how the Athenaeum attempted to dribble its small 
beer venom upon Attila. If you have not, read that 
sweet and gramatical (sic) article, when you will find 
that because a man has succeeded in one style of writing 
he cannot succeed in another, and apply the critics dictum 
to yourself. One half of this world is made up of 
idiocy, insanity, humbug, and peculation, and the other 
half (very nearly) of envy, hatred, malice, and all 
uncharitableness. 

Yours ever truly 

G. P. R. James 

This letter is directed to "Charles Oilier, Esq., Rich- 
ard Bentley, Esq., New Burlington street, London." 

Fair Oak Lodge, Petersfield, 
Hants, 25th December, 1837. 
My Dear Ollier: 

Mr. Bentley I think usually gives me six copies of a 
work such as Louis XIV. I have already had one copy 
of the two first volumes for the Duke of Sussex, and 
you will very much oblige me by having the copies sent 
to the following persons with my compliments written 
in the front leaf and dated Fair Oak Lodge, Petersfield. 
Lord John Russell, Wilton Crescent; S. M. Phillipps, 
Esq., Home Office; The Marquis Conyngham, Dudley 
House, Park Lane; The Lady Polwarth, 9 John 
Street, Berkeley Square; and also one to G. P. R. 
James, Fair Oak Lodge, which will make the six copies. 
I must also have another copy sent to my friend Sey- 
mour as soon as you can, addressed as follows: "Sir 
G. Hamilton Seymour, G. C. H. Brussels, In the care 
of the Under Secretary of State F. O. Downing 
Street." For this last I will pay as soon as you let me 
know what is the price. Mr. Bentley charges me for 



i 9 o AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

the copy; I should like it to be accompanied by 
a copy of Henry Masterton, the small edition of 
which by the [way] I have not received any copies and 
should like some. Pray let me know what Mr. B. 
charges me for Louis per copy as there are several other 
friends to whom I should like to give it, but as Sancho 
would say I must not stretch my feet beyond the length 
of my sheet. 

Yours ever, 

G. P. R. James. 

P. S. I am anxious to get on with the two last 
volumes, but I suppose it is the merry season which 
prevents my having any proofs as yet. 

A letter to Alaric Watts refers to the Boundary 
Question pamphlet: 

Fair Oak Lodge, Petersfield, Hants, 
9th April, 1839. 
My Dear Watts, 

I write you ten lines in the greatest bustle that ever 
man was in to tell you that the death of poor Sir 
Charles Paget turns me out of my house. This is not 
of necessity indeed, for I have a lease of it for some 
time yet unexpired, but Lady Paget sent to ask if I 
would let her come in again and I felt not in my heart 
to refuse the widow under such circumstances. I go 
before the first of May, but I do sincerely wish that 
between this and then I may have the pleasure of seeing 
you here. I think that you will believe me to be a sin- 
cere man; a tolerably bitter enemy as long as I think 
there is cause for enmity, a very pertinaceous friend 
when I do like. From this place we go to London, or 
rather to Brompton, Mrs. James's sister who is in town 
for the winter, having lent her her house there, for 
a short time. It is called the Hermitage and is 
nearly opposite Trevor Square, which perhaps you may 
know. Do not suffer yourself or Mrs. Watts to fancy 
that it will put us to any inconvenience to receive you 
here if you can manage it, as I assure you it will not. 
I sell all my horses by auction on the 25 th and you could 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 191 

help to bid them up. After we quit the Hermitage, 
we have not the slightest idea where we shall go but 
there at least I trust to see you if you cannot leave 
your weighty employments ere then. I was delighted 
with your parthian shots, which were exquisitely truly 
aimed and though the arrows were not poisoned by 
your hand, the corruption of the flesh in which they 
have stuck, depend upon it, will produce gangrene. 
You were made for a reviewer: only you are honest. 
How was it else that I escaped even when we did not 
fully understand each other? 

I have told the booksellers to send you a little 
pamphlet on the American Boundary question. It is 
merely a brief and unpretending summary of the early 
history of that bone of contention, only worth your 
looking into as a saving of time. 

Pray let me hear from you a few words and believe 
me with Mrs. James's and my own best Compliments 
to Mrs. Watts. 

Yours ever 

G. P. R. James 

P. S. I am making a little collection of my works in 
their new edition for Mrs. Watts's book-case and I send 
Richelieu with this. It is odd Bulwer should have just 
published a play under the same title when the third 
edition of mine had been announced for months. I 
have not seen his, but I should like to compare the 
two. 

Alaric A. Watts Esqre 
Crane Court 

Fleet Street 

2 Verulam Place Hastings 

10th January 1840 
My Dear Allan, 

It is very grievous to me to hear that you have been 
suffering and it would be as grievous to hear the how if 
I were not quite sure that at your age and with temper- 
ance in all things such as yours, the enemy — if so we 
can venture to call him — will pass away and leave 



1 92 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

you, perhaps more useful, but not less comfortable for 
many a long year. Within my own recollection this has 
happened to many that I still know in health and vigor 
but while any vestige remains of the disease it always 
leaves a despondency as its footprint which makes us 
look upon the attack as worse than it really has been. 
Though a successful man, I know — I am sure, — you 
have been an anxious man; and there is nothing has 
so great a tendency to produce all kind of nervous af- 
fections as anxiety. I trust however that you have 
now no cause for any kind of anxiety but that regard- 
ing your health, and that it will soon regain its tone. 
Pray my good friend take exercise, not of a violent or 
fatiguing nature, but frequent and tranquilly, and re- 
member that anything which hurries the circulation is 
very detrimental. You will also find everything that 
sits heavy or cold upon the stomach also bad for you; 
I know, for I have seen much mischief done by even a 
small quantity of the cold sorts of fruit. It gives me 
great pleasure to hear you like my books. You are one 
of those who can understand and appreciate the plan 
which I have laid down for myself in writing them. If 
I chose to hazard thoughts and speculations that might 
do evil, to run a tilt at virtue and honor, to sport with 
good feelings and to arouse bad ones, the field being far 
wider, the materials more ample, I might perhaps be 
more brilliant and witty, but I would rather build a 
greek temple or a gothic church than the palace of Ver- 
sailles with all its frog's statues and marbles. If the 
books give you entertainment, you are soon likely to 
have another for there is one now in the press called 
the "King's Highway" but which is not quite so Jack 
Sheppardish as the name imples. With our best regards 
to all yours believe me ever 

Yours truly 

G. P. R. James 

Allan Cunningham Esqre 

Belgrave Place 

Pimlico 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 193 

I do not know to whom this letter was written. 

Hotel de L'Europe, Brussels, 
30th July, '40. 
My Dear Sir, 

The grief and anxiety I have suffered have brought 
upon me an intermittent fever and various concomitant 
evils amongst which has been an affection of the face 
and eyes. Had this not been the case I should have 
written to you ere I left England, although it has cost 
me a great effort to write to any one. I am now a good 
deal better and will immediately correct the proofs I 
have received; but for the future will you tell Mr. 
Shaw to send the proofs in as large a mass as possible, 
addressed as follows and given in to the French dili- 
gence office, a Monsieur G. P. James chez M: C. A. 
Fries, Heidelberg en Basle, aux soins de Messrs. Es- 
chenauer Cie, Strasburg, Via Paris, Presse. 

This is a somewhat long address, but if it be not 
followed and the proofs be sent by Rotterdam I shall 
never get one half of them till two or three years after, 
for such was the case with many proofs of Edwd. the 
Black Prince. 

Any letter for me you had better direct at once to me 
"aux soins de Sir G. Hamilton Seymour, G. C. H. Brus- 
sels." When I am a little better I will write you a 
longer letter telling you all our movements and also 
what progress I have made in my plan for stopping 
continental piracy; in which if you will give me your 
assistance and influence I do not despair of succeeding 
although the Government will do nothing. I have al- 
ready made some way for I can talk without using my 
eyes. 

Yours ever faithfully 

G. P. R. James. 

This letter was written to McGlashan, in Lever's 
care, at Brussels: 



i 9 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

The Shrubbery, Walmer, 
2nd August, 41. 
My Dear Sir, — 

I did not write to you as I had full occupation for 
every minute and of a kind that could not be neglected. 
The same will be the case for the next three weeks, as 
I am just concluding a new work which I can of course 
lay aside for no other undertaking till it is finished. It 
will give me very great pleasure to see you here on your 
way back from Brussels and we can talk over the whole 
of my plan but as to having even one number com- 
pleted that is quite out of the question as in order to 
accomplish it I should be obliged to lay aside a work 
which had reached the beginning of the last volume 
before you made up your mind and to do so would be 
highly disadvantageous to both books. I can tell you 
quite sufficient however regarding the first two num- 
bers to answer your views as to illustrations. 

Pray give my best wishes to Dr. Lever and tell him 
that we are all going on well; though for the last fort- 
night I have had no small anxiety upon my shoulders 
regarding Mrs. James and the baby. 
Believe me to be 
Dear Sir 

Yours faithfully 

G. P. R. James. 

On May 17, 1842, he wrote to Mr. Bretton: 

"* * * I am very glad you were pleased with 
what I said at the Literary Fund dinner. I could have 
said a great deal more upon the same subject and opened 
my views for the benefit of the arts in this country, in- 
cluding literature of course, as one of the noblest 
branches of art — but the hour was so late that I made 
my speech as short as possible and yet perhaps it was too 
long. * * * I think if I can bring the great body 
of literary men to act with me, especially the much 
neglected and highly deserving writers for the daily and 
weekly press, I shall be enabled to open a new prospect 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 195 

for literature. Should you have any oportunity (sic) 
of hinting that such are my wishes and hopes, pray do : 
for this is no transient idea, but a fixed and long medi- 
tated purpose which, however inadequate may be my 
own powers to carry it out, may produce great things 
by the aid of more powerful minds than that of 
Yours very faithfully 

G. P. R. James. 

The name of the person to whom the following letter 
was written is not given : 

The Oaks nr. Walmer Kent 

2 2ND AUGT. 1844 

Sir: 

I have been either absent from home or unwell since 
your letter arrived or I should have answered it sooner. 
I do not exactly understand the sort of use you desire 
to make of the Life of Edward the Black Prince writ- 
ten by myself. Of course I can have no possible objec- 
tion to your making as long quotations from it as you 
like, or to your grounding your own statements upon 
those which it contains which I think you may rely upon 
with full confidence ; but if it was your purpose to make 
the projected Work a mere sort of Abridgement of 
mine, I am sorry to say I cannot give you the permis- 
sion you desire, however much I might personally wish 
to do so, as Messrs. Longman published a Second Edi- 
tion of it not long ago, a part of which remains unsold 
and I could not venture, of course to interfere with their 
sale. They could not of course object to any quotations 
you might think fit to make or any reasonable use of 
the facts stated, as I cannot but think that each his- 
torian has a full right to employ the information col- 
lected by all his predecessors. 

I have the honor to be, 
Sir 
Your most obedt. Servant 

G. P. R. James 



i 9 6 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

The Shrubbery Walmer Kent 

ist June 1847 
My Dear Worthington, 

I received your letter yesterday and would have an- 
swered it immediately; but we are in the midst of an 
election business here. I am not a candidate; and, dis- 
gusted with public men, had resolved not to take any 
part on behalf of others; but I have been led on and 
when once in the business go on, as you know, heart and 
hand. 

Let me hear a little more about the Ecclesiastical His- 
tory Society. I am a churchman you know, but far 
from Puseyitical and I should not like to be mixed up 
with any legends except such as Ehrenstein or any Saints 
except St. Mary le bonne. 

I am glad to hear that you have moved your dwell- 
ing; for Pancras was so completely out of my beat 
that it was impossible for me to get there when in town. 
Indeed during my visits to that famed city of London 
I always put myself in mind of an American orator's 
description of himself when he said "I am a right down 
regler Steam Engine, I go slick off right ahead and 
never stop till I get to the tarnation back of nothing 
at all." 

I shall be delighted to see you and Mr. Christmas 
here any time you can come and will with a great deal 
of pleasure board and educate you but as to lodging 
you I am unable for what with babies, nurses, and one 
thing or another I can hardly lodge myself. I do not 
propose to be in London for some days or I should 
rather say weeks, as I was there very lately. 

As to Marylebone, any body may propose me for any 
where and I will be the representative of any body of 
men always provided nevertheless that I do not spend 
a penny and maintain my own principles to the end of 
the chapter. I am not yet inscribable in the dictionaire 
des Gironettes ; but I trust soon to be for it seems to me 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 197 

that the Jim Crow system is the only one that succeeds 
in England. 

Believe me with best regards to all your household 
Yours truly 

G. P. R. James 

In a letter dated April 1, 1849, an d addressed to Mr. 
Davison, he says : 

"I understand you have got a potato. Can you spare 
half of it, for we have not that. But to speak seriously, 
which is not my wont, Mrs. James has heard from Mrs. 
H. that on your farm there are some capital praties, 
and as we have been languishing for some of the jew- 
els for the last month without being able to get anything 
edible or digestible, if this rumor of your riches is cor- 
rect, will you spare a sack or two to a poor man in want, 
and what will be the cost of the same, delivered in 
Farnham safe, sound and in good condition — wind and 
weather permitting. The truth is I have no horse to 
send for them; and neither cow nor calf have learned 
to draw yet. I have had no time to teach them, or to 
buy a horse either. I wish any one else had half my 
work and I half of theirs — I'd take it and give a pre- 
mium." 

How busy he was after his arrival in America may 
be seen from a letter dated October 27, 1850: 

"I fear that it would be quite impossible for me to 
rewrite the first four numbers of the tale you speak of. 
Applications for lectures have come in so rapidly that I 
have not one single evening vacant and the evening 
would be the only time which I could devote to such a 
purpose as all my mornings must be given up to the 
fulfilment of my engagements with England and to trav- 
eling from place to place. You may easily imagine 
how much I am occupied when I tell you that during 
the whole month I am about to stay in Boston, there is 
not one night which has not its lecture fixed there or at 
some place in the neighborhood. The delay in London 



198 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

however, of which I had not heard till I reecived your 
letters is favorable, as it will enable me to get the proofs 
over in good time. The four parts are in type, I under- 
stand, and I have written over two thumping letters to 
the printers scolding them for not sending the proof as 
they are bound by contract to do. One of these letters 
was posted three weeks ago, so that we may expect the 
proofs in a week or ten days. In regard to the name, it 
is certainly curious that one name should have been taken 
three times but I do not see how it is possible for me to 
alter it now when it is announced in London. I was not 
at all aware that any work had before appeared under 
a similar title, but you could head it James's story with- 
out a name in the Magazine, but if any other title is 
given it must be by yourselves and not by 
"Yours faithfully, 

"G. P. R. James." 

Soon after his arrival in America he appears to have 
become involved in some trouble with publishers. He 
writes from New York on October 24, 1850, to Oilier: 

* * * "Send no more sheets to Mr. Law till you 
hear from me again. My eyes have been opened since 
my arrival her. Four times the sum now paid can be 
obtained from Messrs. Harper, and negotiations are 
going on with them in which they must not have the 
advantage of having the sheets. You shall not lose by 
any new arrangement — of that you may trust to the 
word of one who has I think never failed you." 

He adds, in a postscript: "Tell him [Mr. Newby] I 
have been shamefully imposed upon by false statements 
of the sale here and if I had taken his advice I should 
have been some hundreds of pounds richer." 

On October 5, 185 1, he writes from Stockbridge to 
Oilier: 

"I have not written to you earlier because I wanted 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 199 

to find the treaty with Russia in regard to Copyright, 
and also to see the head of a great German house here 
in America so as to put you in the way of negotiating 
for the sale of my next book in Germany. But I have 
been too lame to leave my own house for anything but 
a morning drive. I am so far better that I can now 
walk out for a mile or two, but my right hand and arm 
remain very painful. However, I think I shall be able 
to go to New York in ten days and will write to you 
from that place. * * * I am anxious to dedicate 
the first book I write to my own satisfaction, to Lord 
Charles Clinton. He is one of the noblest-minded men 
I ever met with — all truth and honor and straightfor- 
wardness. If you see him will you ask him for me 
whether he has any objection. The Fate is highly popu- 
lar here — considered the best book I ever wrote. — by the 
critics at least. The whole of the first chapter was read 
in the Supreme Court the other day before Chief Jus- 
tice Shaw to prove what was the state of England in 
the reign of James II. So says the 'N. Y. Evening 
Post' and I suppose it is true. I wish I had you here 
with me to see the splendor of an American autumn in 
the most lovely scene. The landscape is all on fire with 
the coloring of the foliage and yet so harmoniously 
blended are the tints, from the brightest crimson to the 
deep green of the pines that the effect is that of a con- 
tinuous sunset. Mountains, forests, lakes, streams are 
all in a glow round." 

,' 

A letter to Oilier, written at Stockbridge on March 
22, 1852, deals with some financial matters and then 
proceeds : 

"I am glad to hear what you say of Revenge — though 
the title is not one I would myself have chosen, there 
being a tale of that name in the book of the Passions. 
I think it is a good book, better in conception than in 
execution perhaps. Your comparison of Richardson 
and Johnson with myself and you will not hold. You 



200 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

are scantily remunerated for much trouble. Johnson 
had done nothing that I can remember for Richardson. 
As to Richardson's parsimony towards the great, good 
man, you explain it all in one word. The former was 
rich. Do you remember the fine poem of Gaffer Grey 
— Holcrofft's I believe — 

'The poor man alone, 
To the poor man's moan, 
Of his morsel a morsel will give Gaffer Grey.' 

"But this rule is not without splendid exceptions, of 
which I will one day give you an instance, which I 
think will touch you much. At present I am writing 
in great haste in the grey of the morning with snow all 
around me, the thermometer at 18, and my hand nearly 
frozen. Verily, we have here to pay for the hot sum- 
mer and gorgeous autumn in the cold silver coinage of 
winter." 

Another letter of his written from Winchester, Vir- 
ginia, November 6, 1853, to Oilier, has some interest. 
He writes thus : 

"My Dear Ollier: Long before the arrival of your 
kind letter, which reached me only two days ago, I had 
directed Messrs. Harper to send me a revise of the first 
page of Ticonderoga, in order to transmit it to you for 
the correction of errors which had crept into the Ms. 
through the stupidity of the drunken beast who wrote 
it under my dictation. Harpers have never sent the 
revise, but I think it better to write at once in order to 
have one correction and one alteration made, which must 
be effected even at the cost of a cancel of the page — 
which of course I will pay for. The very first sen- 
tence should have inverted commas before it. These 
have been omitted in the copy left here, as well as the 
words 'so he wrote' or something tantamont, inserted 
at the end of the first clause of that sentence. * * 

* I cannot feel that an appointment of any small 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 201 

value, to the dearest and most unhealthy city in the 
United States (with the exception of New Orleans) is 
altogether what I had a right to hope for or expect. 
You must recollect that I never asked for the consulate 
of Virginia, where there is neither society for my family, 
resources or companionship for myself, nor education 
to be procured for my little boy — where I am sur- 
rounded by swamps and marsh miasma, eaten up by 
mosquitoes and black flies, and baked under an atmos- 
phere of molten brass, with the thermometer in the 
shade at 103 — where every article of first necessity, 
with the exception of meat, is sixty per cent, dearer than 
in London — where the only literature is the ledger, and 
the arts only illustrated in the slave market. 

I hesitated for weeks ere I accepted ; and only did so 
at length upon the assurances given that this was to 
be a step to something better, and upon the conviction 
that I was killing myself by excessive literary labors. 
Forgive me for speaking somewhat bitterly; but I feel 
I have not been well used. You have known me more 
than thirty years, and during that time I do not think 
you ever before heard a complaint issue from my lips. 
I am not a habitual grumbler; but 'the galled jade will 
wince.' 

I am very grateful to Scott for his kind efforts, and 
perhaps they may be successful; for Lord Clarendon, 
who is I believe a perfect gentleman himself, when he 
comes to consider the society in which I have been ac- 
customed to move, my character, my habits of thought, 
and the sort of place which Norfolk is — if he knows 
anything about it — must see that I am not in my proper 
position there. He has no cause of enmity or ill-will 
towards me, and my worst enemy could not wish me a 
more unpleasant position. If I thought that I was serv- 
ing my country there better than I could elsewhere, I 
would remain without asking for a change ; but the exact 
reverse is the case. The slave dealers have got up a sort 
of outcry against me — I believe because under Lord 
Clarendon's own orders I have sucessfully prosecuted 
several cases of kidnapping negroes from the West In- 



202 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

dies — and the consequence is that not a fortnight passes 
but an attempt is made to burn my house down. The 
respectable inhabitants of Norfolk are indignant at this 
treatment of a stranger, and the authorities have offered 
a reward of three hundred dollars for the apprehension 
of the offenders; but nothing has proved successful. 
This outcry is altogether unjust and unreasonable; for 
I have been perfectly silent upon the question of sla- 
very since I have been here, judging that I had no busi- 
ness to meddle with the institutions of a foreign coun- 
try in any way. But I will not suffer any men, when I 
can prevent or punish it, to reduce to slavery British 
subjects without chastisement. 

You will be sorry to hear that this last year in Nor- 
folk has been very injurious to my health; and I am 
just now recovering from a sharp attack of the fever 
and ague peculiar to this climate. It seized me just as 
I set out for the West — the great, the extraordinary 
West. Quinine had no effect upon it, but I learned a 
remedy in Wisconsin which has cured the disease en- 
tirely though I am still very weak. * * * 

He seems to have been tormented by ill health dur- 
ing all his period of residence at Norfolk. He writes 
to Oilier: 

British Consulate, Norfolk, Virginia, 
7th April, 1855. 

My dear Ollier : — It has been impossible for me to 
write to you and it is now only possible for me to write 
a few lines as I have already had to do more than my 
tormented and feeble hands could well accomplish. For 
10 weeks I was nailed to my chair with rheumatic gout 
in knees, feet, hips, hands, shoulder. For some time I 
could only sign my dispatches with my left hand and to 
some letters put my mark. Happily my feet, knees, 
&c, are well, but I cannot get the enemy out of my 
hands and arms. My shoulder is Sebastapol and will 
not yield. 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 203 

Another letter, also in my possession, I have caused 
to be printed elsewhere. It is addressed to Oilier, and 
was written from Farnham, Surrey, on July 26, 1848. 

My dear Oilier: I do not suppose that I shall be in 
town for a few days, and I think in the meantime it 
would be better to send me down the sheets with any 
observations you may have to make. I shall be very 
happy to cut, carve, alter and amend to the best of my 
ability. The 'sum' can only be described as 'Heaven, 
Hell and Earth', or if you like it better, 'upstairs, down- 
stairs, in my lady's chamber.' But I suppose neither of 
these descriptions would be very attractive and there- 
fore perhaps you had better put 'The Sky, the hall of 
Eblis, South Asia'. When it maketh its appearance you 
had better for your own sake take care of the reviewing ; 
for I cannot help thinking that with the critics at least, 
my name attached to it is likely to do it more harm 
than good, unless friendly hands undertake the review- 
ing. The literary world always puts me in mind of the 
account which naturalists give of the birds called Puffs 
and Rees which alight in great bodies upon high downs 
and then each bird forms a little circle in which he runs 
round and round. As long as each continues this health- 
ful exercise on the spot he has first chosen, all goes on 
quietly; but the moment any one ventures out of his 
own circle, all the rest fall upon him and very often a 
general battle ensues. I wish you could do anything for 
my book Gowrie or the King's Plot. I had a good deal 
of money embarked in it. 

Yours faithfully, 

G. P. R. James. 

My letter of latest date indicates the time when he 
was transferred to Richmond. 

British Consulate, Norfolk, Va. 
3 May, 1856. 

My Dear Mr. Kennedy : * * * Lord Clar- 
endon has ordered me to make every preparation for 

14 



2o 4 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

moving the Consulate of Virginia up to Richmond but 
not to do so until he has nominated a Vice Consul for 
Norfolk. He also wishes me to send him a detailed re- 
port regarding the late epidemic here and what between 
house hunting, office hunting, and trying to run down 
those foxes called rumors into their holes and to draw 
truth up from the bottom of her well in a place where 
people are as fanatical upon contagion and non-con- 
tagion as if they were articles of faith, I have had no 
peace of my life. My book I would have sent you but 
I could not get a copy worth sending. It has found 
favor in the South and is powerfully abused in the 
North, both which circumstances tend to increase the 
sale so that it has been wonderfully well read. * * 

* I am sorry I did not think of taking notes of all 
the winning conversations at Berkeley. We might have 
made out together some few from the Noctes Berkeli- 
anae. 

Yours ever, 

G. P. R. James. 

I was interested not long ago in a remark of the ac- 
complished literary reviewer of the Providence Journal 
about reading for boys. He said: "As a matter of 
fact, there is plenty of good, healthy reading for boys 
if parents and teachers would do more to bring it to 
their attention. To say nothing of Scott — whom some 
degenerate youngsters in these days profess to find stu- 
pid — there are Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, Mayne 
Reid and hosts of others who can tell stories of adven- 
ture that any healthy minded boy will enjoy." I know 
well the sound and refined judgments of my Providence 
friend, — who castigated me once for my opinion that 
Cowper was not much read in these times — but I do 
not understand how he can imagine a boy of the twen- 
tieth century condescending to read Ainsworth or James. 
First and foremost, the novels are too long. The con- 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 205 

ventional three volumes demanded by the English pub- 
lic are revolting to the minds of the modern boys who 
want their fiction condensed and flavored with tabasco 
sauce. The Providence critic and I know — or think 
we know- — what they ought to read, what would be 
good for their intellectual digestion; but we might as 
well offer them pre-digested tablets in lieu of chocolate 
creams. The young person will not now subsist on a 
diet of Ainsworth or of James. The long-spun dia- 
logue would bore him. He calls for something more 
piquant; revels in slang; wants "sensation" and plenty 
of it, compressed in a small compass. As for the par- 
ents, they do not know much better themselves. The 
man of Providence well says: "The trouble is, as was 
pointed out in these columns recently in discussing the 
reading of girls, that the home atmosphere is all against 
any intelligent selection of books." The prevalent an- 
tagonism to all that is called "old-fashioned" is not lim- 
ited to the young people, and the novels of James are, in 
comparison with the novels of to-day as old-fashioned 
as are the plays of Massinger in comparison with those 
of Bernard Shaw. 

James has been compared to Dumas, and there are 
many things in common between the two authors — their 
voluminous publications, their bent towards the his- 
torical, and their use of an amanuensis. A critic, not 
very well disposed towards James, says in regard to this 
comparison, "both had a certain gift of separating from 
the picturesque parts of history what could without dif- 
ficulty be worked up into picturesque fiction, and both 
were possessed of a ready pen. Here, however, the 
likeness ends. Of purely literary talent, James had lit- 
tle. His plots are poor, his descriptions weak, his dia- 
logue often below even a fair average, and he was de- 



206 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

plorably prone to repeat himself."* This harsh judg- 
ment appears to me to be far too severe. His descrip- 
tions are not weak, and he surely had an advantage over 
Dumas in the matter of decency and morality. 

But the most ardent admirers of this hard-working 
and conscientious toiler in the fields of literature must 
own that in all his multitudinous pages he has not given 
to the world a single character which has endured in 
the popular mind, and the Podsnap virtue of having 
written no word which could bring a blush to the cheek 
of the young person, cannot remedy this flaw in his 
title. Writers who rival him in productiveness but who 
are in respects inferior to him, have nevertheless secured 
a more permanent place in the hall of fame, because 
they have been able to give to some of their personages 
a real and distinctive life. Leather-Stocking and Long 
Tom Coffin shine forth from the many wearisome chap- 
ters of Fenimore Cooper, Count Fosco and Captain 
Wragge from the ephemeral volumes of Wilkie Collins, 
and Mrs. Proudie from the placid chronicles of Anthony 
Trollope, but they have no kinsmen in the works of 
James. Even in the historical stories no individual 
stands forth like Louis XL in Onentin Durward or 
Rienzi in Bulwer's stirring tale. Nor has he left to 
posterity any brilliant tour de force like the "Dick Tur- 
pin's Ride" of Harrison Ainsworth. 

Whatever may be said of the diffuseness and same- 
ness of the stories, of their want of definite plan, their 
lack of strength in the development of the characters 
who throng their pages, and the evidence they afford 
of hasty composition, it must be admitted that they are 



*Encyclopaedia Britannica, XIII. 561 (Ninth Edi- 
tion). 



GEORGE P. R. JAMES 207 

clean and dignified in tone and that they display a won- 
derful acquaintance with history as well as a faithful 
and conscientious use of materials gathered with infinite 
pains and laborious research. These qualities, how- 
ever, are not those which ensure literary immortality; 
and while it is possible that the best of the books may 
find from time to time readers incited to peruse them 
by a certain curiosity, and while the lovers of good 
stories may enjoy them, it is not likely that they will 
ever rank with the novels of Scott, of Thackeray, of 
Dickens, or even of Marryat and Lever, although they 
may occupy a place on the shelves of our libraries by 
the side of the old romances of the period of Amadis 
de Gaul or the forgotten tales of the younger Crebil- 
lon. 



APPENDIX 

A LIST OF THE WORKS OF G. P. R. JAMES 

It is difficult to give an accurate list of James's books 
with the dates of their publication. The one given by 
Allibone is the most complete, but it is not always cor- 
rect. The catalogue of the British Museum enumerates 
sixty-seven novels. The following does not include 
merely edited works or those prepared in collaboration 
with others, with a few exceptions. Those marked with 
an asterisk are reprinted in the collected edition of 1844- 
1849. I was much helped not only in correcting the 
Allibone list, but in the preparation of the sketch of 
James, by the late G. H. Sass of Charleston, S. C, 
who was probably better informed about the subject 
than any one else in this country. 

Life of Edward the Black Prince: 2 vols: 1822. 
[Some accounts give 1836: See ante, page 136.] 

The Ruined City: a poem. 
Richelieu: 3 vols: 1829. 

*Darnley: 3 vols: 1830. 

*Del'Orme: 3 vols: 1830. 

*Philip Augustus: 3 vols: 1831. 

Memoirs of Great Commanders: 3 vols: 1832. 

* Henry Masterton: 3 vols: 1832. 
History of Charlemagne. 1832. 
*Mary of Burgundy: 3 vols: 1833. 

* Delaware: 3 vols: 1833: (reprinted under title of 

209 



210 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

"Thirty Years Since," 1848). 

*John Marston Hall: 3 vols: 1834: (reprinted under 
title of "The Little Ball o' Fire," 1847). 

*One in a Thousand: 3 vols: 1835. 

*The Gipsey: 3 vols: 1835. 

Educational Institutions of Germany: 1836. 

Lives of the Most Eminent Foreign Statesman: 5 
vols: (4 by James, 1836, [1832?] 1838. 

Attila: 3 vols: 1837. 

Memoirs of Celebrated Women: 3 vols. ( ?) 1837. 

*The Robber: 3 vols: 1838. 

Book of the Passions: 1838. 

History of Louis XIV. 4 vols: 1838. 

*The Huguenot: 3 vols: 1838. 

Blanche of Navarre: a play: 1839. 

Charles Tyrrell: 2 vols: 1839. 

*The Gentleman of the Old School: 3 vols : 1839. 

* Henry of Guise: 3 vols: 1839. 

History of the United States Boundary Question: 

1839. 

*The King's Highway: 3 vols.: 1840. 

The Man at Arms: 3 vols.: 1840. 

Rose d'Albret: 3 vols.: 1840. 

The Jacquerie: 3 vols.: 1841. 

The Vernon Letters: 3 vols.: (edited). 1841. 

*Castleneau; or the Ancient Regime: 3 vols.: 1841. 

*The Brigand; or Corse de Leon: 3 vols.: 1841. 

Corn Laws. 

History of Richard Coeur de Lion: 4 vols.: 1841-42. 

Commissioner; or De Lunatico Inquirendo: 1842. 

*Morley Ernstein: 3 vols.: 1842. 

Eva St. Clair, and Other Tales: 2 vols.: 1843. 

The False Heir: 3 vols.: 1843. 

* Forest Days: 3 vols.: 1843. 



APPENDIX 211 

History of Chivalry: 1843. 

* Arabella Stuart: 3 vols.: 1843. 

*Agincourt: 3 vols.: 1844. 

Arrah Neil: 3 vols.: 1845. 

The Smuggler: 3 vols.: 1845. 

Heidelberg: 3 vols.: 1846. 

The Stepmother: 3 vols.: 1846. 

Whim and its Consequences: 3 vols.: 1847. 

Margaret Graham: 2 vols.: 1847. 

The Last of the Fairies: 1847. 

The Castle of Ehrenstein: 3 vols.: 1847. 

The Woodman: 3 vols.: 1847. 

The Convict: 3 vols.: 1847. 

Life of Henry IV. of France: 3 vols.: 1847. 

Russell: 3 vols.: 1847. 

Sir Theodore Broughton: 3 vols.: 1847. 

Beauchamp: 3 vols.: 1848. 

Carmazalaman; a Fairy Drama: 1848. 

The Fight of the Fiddlers: 1848. 

Forgery; or Best Intentions: 3 vols.: 1848. 

*Gowrie; or the King's Plot: 1848. 

Dark Scenes of History: 3 vols.: 1849. 

John Jones' Tales from English History: 2 vols.: 

1849. 

A String of Pearls : 2 vols. : 1849. [His first written 
book; published 1833 (?) ; Allibone assigns its publi- 
cation to 1849]. 

Ireland's "David Rizzio": 1849: (edited). 

HeatMeld's "Means of Relief from Taxation": 
1849: (edited). 

Henry Smeaton: 3 vols.: 1850. 

The Fate: 3 vols.: 1851. 

Revenge: (sometimes called A Story Without a 
Name) : 3 vols.: 185 1. 



212 AT THE LIBRARY TABLE 

Pequinillo: 3 vols.: 1852. 

Adrian; or the Clouds of the Mind: (jointly with 
M. B. Field) : 2 vols.: 1852. 

Agnes Sorel: 3 vols.: 1853. 

Ticonderoga; or the Black Eagle: 3 vols.: 1854. 

Prince Life: 1855. 

The Old Dominion ; or the Southampton Massacre : 
3 vols.: 1856. 

Lord Montagu's Page: 1858. 

The Cavalier: (Bernard March?) : 1859. 

Adra; or the Peruvians: a poem: (circa, 1829). 

The City of the Silent: a poem. 

The Desultory Man: 3 vols. 

Life of Vicissitudes. 

My Aunt Pontypool : 3 vols. 

The Old Oak Chest: 3 vols. 




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